Friday Nights
by claimedbydaryl
Summary: Music AU. When Daryl Dixon witnesses a blonde angel singing in a bar he lies about being part-owner of the music label Rick & Co. to talk to her. He is drawn to this girl, unable to shake the feeling of compulsion, and Beth is entranced by the sight of the older, enigmatic man watching her sing. In a dark corner of a sleazy bar their relationship slowly grows into something more.
1. Cherokee Rose Bar

So, this was a little idea that soon turned into something much more... Hope you like it! (And yes, it'll be a long one)

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><p>Beth Greene crossed the threshold of the Cherokee Rose Bar, the dead weight of her guitar case hanging from her small hands. From outside, the low-slung building was tucked in between a pizza parlour and a derelict parking lot. It was nondescript in all aspects of the word: red-bricked, with an overhead neon sign shining like a beacon in the night, frantic insects buzzing around the garish source of warmth and light. The interior wasis filled with a vibrant, if dim, red light that didn't quite reach the dark corners and shadows of the bar. The floor was a polished hardwood, worn from a thousand footsteps of the sober, the drunk, of the lost and hurt and bleeding souls. Traces of acrid cigarette smoke forever clung to the air. Spilt alcohol—liquor, cocktails, beer—had seeped into the surfaces of tables and chairs and bar runners.<p>

Beth 's caught at the pungent scent of something like urine, her delicate nose wrinkling. But Hershel Greene had also taught her daughter to not judge a book by its cover, that everyone started out good and were just lead astray at one point or another. She also toldells herself that every famous musician started out in places like this—with a few bedraggled business-type men and the usual crop of drunkards scattered across the room, their ties loosened and hair rumpled—and all it takes is one person in the crowd with the right connections to make it big.

Beth had glimpsed a flyer for open mic night at the Cherokee Rose Bar last week, so she'd called the owner Carol Peletier on the spot. The voice on the other end of her cell phone was maternal and soft, although the underlying quality of tough-edged hardness didn't escape Beth. Mrs. Peletier—she insisted on being called Carol despite the firm set of manners instilled into Beth as a child resulted in calling her Mrs. Peletier—said she had a few openings, so the younger Greene sister promptly filled the 8:30 slot.

There were's only two women in the bar, one behind the counter and the other in the back looking like she's had three gin and tonics too many. Beth strode towards the bartender with as much stiff-necked courage of her sister that she could muster. The slim, grey-haired woman glanceds at the approaching girl, not having noticed her standing there before, and was momentarily stunned by her face-splitting smile and fresh, youthful appearance. She looked too clean, too shiny and new to be in the place like this, no matter how much Carol tried to fix the Cherokee Rose Bar up real nice.

"Excuse me," Beth said, laying her arms on the counter, "Is Mrs. Peletier around?"

Carol grinned at her behaviour—how she didn't treat the bar like a cesspool of sin and germs, the fact that she was smiling open and warm at her. "You're looking at her," Carol replied, hands on her hips and a subtle tease evident in her tone.

"Oh," Beth faltered for a second, recovering quickly. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Carol waved at her to stop her fussing, unable to hide her good-natured amusement. "It's fine, it's fine. I was just making a joke—and not a very good one at that." She adjusts the bandana around her head, which was a usual fixture in the heat of a Georgian night. "Beth Greene, I presume?"

Beth nodded, raising her hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The jumble of bracelets around her wrist slips down and Beth is quick to cover the strip of bare skin—the action didn't go unnoticed by the sharp eyes of Carol.

"Yeah, I'm Beth." She looked at the ground shyly, staring at the toes of her pale cowboy boots. A wave of uncertainty and doubt flooded Beth's senses and she couldn'tan't help but feel out of her depth. She hadn't told Maggie or Daddy where she was going tonight, only offering a vague story of how she was meeting up with her high school friends in town, travelling all this way with her guitar case in the passenger seat of her truck and a ball of nerves in her stomach. She'd basically lied to her family just to come all the way out to an unfamiliar bar and sing into the night, only with only a few drunkards for an audience—all who probably didn't care one bit for her stupid little musings.

Carol registered Beth's sudden change of character, concerned. "Hey," she said gently, rounding the bar and wrapping an arm around the younger girl's shoulders. "Are you okay, sweetie? Do you want me to call a cab to take you home? Or I can make you a glass of warm milk to calm your nerves, how about that?"

Beth briefly considered the thought of going home, but she refused to break down and cry in front of a woman she hardly knew—no matter how nice she wais. She had to do this, she had to get over her fear and be able to sing. Beth straightened up, wiping an errant tear from her cheek. At that point in time, a man who had been sitting further down the bar—damn near invisible—raised his head to cast a look at all the commotion.

Daryl Dixon was in his usual position on a Friday night, with a glass of cheap liquor for company. He'd lost his job today—it was actually a pretty sweet gig at an auto garage in the town over, and it paid well—all thanks to a braying jackass who thought he'd wasn't "upholding a proper code of conduct" or something. And just to spite his boss, Shane Walsh—a disgraced cop turned the biggest prick in Georgia—he'd punched the customer square in the face. The red-blooded kid went down like a light, Shane 'bout had a cow, and Daryl lost his severance package.

So, here he was: drunk, angry and alone, expecting to wake up tomorrow mornin' stinking of stale cigarette smoke and his mouth bitter with alcohol. Merle had skipped town a few weeks ago and left his baby brother to fend for himself in a place that sneered at the name Dixon. At least when the two brothers were together it was clear that Daryl was the lesser of an asshole.

The barkeep did her job—a woman who didn't bat an eyelash at the layer of grime covering his skin, or the dirt and holes in his pants—and she slid a dark bottle to him over the counter, telling him it was on the house. But now his attention had alternated from the golden dregs rolling around at bottom of his glass to the girl the bartender was comforting—

And shit_. _She was beautiful.

Daryl was struck dumb at the sight of her—sunshine-bright hair and blue eyes and pale, smooth skin. She wasn't real—there's no way a girl like her couldan exist in this dirty, ugly world of vagrants and alcoholics and men who beat their own kin. She couldn't be standing the same general vicinity as him, no more than a few mere feet away, still untouched by the toxic taint of life. The poison that had worked under his skin long ago.

Their eyes—blue and blue—meet for the smallest fragment of time, connecting the two together.

And then it wass over—Daryl had dismissed the build of emotion he had no skill to name and turned back to his drink, and Beth had dropped her gaze, ashamed at the feeling of desire that'd unfurled low in her stomach as the rugged, older man's gaze pierced right through her.

The interaction went unbeknownst to Carol, who'd ushered Beth to the nearest stool—a mere three seats from Daryl. Beth had laid her guitar against the bar, casting a fleeting glance in the man's direction. Instead of acknowledginge her he chose to tip the rim of his glass to his lips and swallow. A bitter taste swirled over his tongue, burning. Disappointed—although she had no reason to be—, Beth returned her gaze to Carol—the pretence of calling her Mrs. Peletier vanished the moment she'd wrapped her up in a hug—and watched her set about making a drink with a practised grace.

"You sure you still want to sing?" Carol asked with a washcloth slung over her shoulder, holding a ceramic mug in her hands.

"Yeah, I do," Beth replied, hating how small and timid she sounded.

Carol smiled at her again, proceeding to warm up the milk and muttering something about honey—the idea of a bartender having milk and honey on standby eluded Beth. But then again, Beth thought part of Carol's job requirement wais filling in as an acting psychiatrist to her customers—even her daddy had been included among that group of people once.

Beth turned around in her seat to catch the deep-voiced, crooning end of Johnny Cash's cover of "Hurt" onstage. The singer was a slim, middle-aged man with a beard; bearing a strange likeness to The Man In Black—dressed head to toe in a dark suit, hair combed back and leather shoes a' shining. Her daddy didn't permit gospel music in the house and Beth had never had the gall to go against Hershel's wishes, but in the rare moments when she was alone she'd play "Hurt" on the piano in the living room. It was a melancholic song, filled with such grief and pain and regret that tears soon blurred her vision.

"So," the sound of Carol's voice behind her startled Beth. "What are you planning on playing?" The younger Greene sister swung her legs back around and murmured an apology, her neck flushed red with embarrassment. Three seats to her left and straining to catch a look at the girl without outright staring, Daryl ran his tongue across his teeth at the sight of colour travelling up her exposed neck. He scratched at his forehead with the jagged nail of a thumb, trying to bely how much he just wanted to turn and _look. _For his gaze to travel the length of her body—cowboy boots, legs, waist, tits, neck, face, eyes, hair—with such intensity it would leave scorch marks.

"Uh, I was thinking of doing one of my own songs."

"Oh, so you want to be a musician?"

_And she sings too,_ Daryl thought to himself.

Beth shook her head on instinct, having gone through this conservation a thousand times over with a million different people. Most of them were her father, telling her no daughter of his was going to have a career in music—that singing wasn't even a career at that. "No, it's just something I do in my spare time. It's nothing special."

Carol stirred the drizzle of honey into a cup of warm milk before placing it before Beth. "Well, I wouldn't go saying that until I hear you sing. I don't get manyuch people with talent coming through here, honey, so it'd be nice to hear something good for a change."

Still smiling, Beth giggled at the compliment, and Daryl decides he's never heard a more beautiful sound until now. The younger Greene sister reached for the glass of milk in a delicate hold, raising it to her lips. When a small trickle of white milk trickles down the side of her mouth Daryl shoots to his feet, his alcohol-blurred senses knocking a stool aside. He breezed past the girl and the bartender—both tracked his movements, one in her peripheral vision and the other blatantly staring at him—to the safety of outside. He felt more comfortable in the dark, open landscape. The air was thick with humidity and the cement path stable underneath his booted feet. He wandered to the parking lot, resting against the side of the building to fish a stray pack of cigarette from the front of his shirt pocket. He'd never liked the stuff—instead following in Merle's footsteps and falling into the habit—but now he was addicted to soothing effect of nicotine. Filling his lungs with poison and eyes shuttering close, Daryl tried to erase the picture of the unfamiliar girl—illuminated in a film of red lamplight, so bright and out of place in a part of the world that was suited to folks to him—from his mind.

Inside, Beth acknowledged Carol's raised eyebrow at the strange man's behaviour, but refraimed from saying anything further. When she moved to attend to another customer—the women raising her hand for another gin and tonic—Beth was compelled to cast a sidelong glance at the front door. She knew it was wrong, that she didn't care about the man with shaggy hair and wings on his back, but she looked anyway.

"Beth," Carol was at her elbow, diverting her attention from the inert door. "You're up."

She smiled at Carol, shouldering the weight of her guitar as she neared the stage. She'd done this before, in quirky cafés and little coffee shops, where the audience wore ironic T-shirts and numerous rings and skinny jeans, pulsating with a youthful exuberance. But she hadn't performed in a real bar before, where suspicious stains marked the deep-set cherry booths and the crowd was restricted to alcohol-dulled adults.

Beth passed the bearded man on her path towards the stage. He tipped his invisible hat to her like a gentleman. She climbed the stairs at the bottom of the stage, her cheeks flushed pink. Beth crouched by the waiting stool onstage, fiddling with opening her guitar case. Carol's feet entered the edges of her vision.

"He's a friend," Carol said, "the one in black."

Beth bit her lip. "He seems nice." For a spilt second she thought Carol was talking about the man at the bar, the one she wanted to know more about, the one who she would never see again. She focused on taking deep, even breaths to slow her heart rate.

Carol tapped the microphone, ensuring the sound travelled through the speakers. Beth took her seat, positioning her acoustic guitar across her knees, the shape of it familiar against her jean-clad thighs. She almost wished she'd dressed lil' more conservative—Beth's pants were black and skin-tight, and she wore an unbuttoned flannel over a cropped singlet and tennis shoes. Baby-fine wisps of hair had escaped her loose ponytail to frame her face.

"You ready?" Carol prompted, adjusting the height of the microphone for Beth's comfort.

"Yeah," she smiled in response, reaching for the tall, metal stand and pulling it closer to her. Beth shifted in her seat, trying to convey an air of confidence and maturity that she didn't have, testing the strings of her guitar. Carol departed the stage soon after with a fleeting touch to her shoulder.

Beth's neck prickled with the weight of unseen eyes, and she raised her head to spot _him_—the man with angel wings—standing in the open doorway. Something clenched and tightened in her chest, and Beth was fuelled with a sudden desire to impress him, to transcend this room, this place.

She gripped the microphone stand in a firm hold, leaning close to it. "This is a song called 'Be Not So Fearful." And her hands skim across the metal strings with an expert ease, finding the tune she'd played a million times before in the solace of her own room, never to grace a stranger's ears.

_Be not so nervous, be not so frail_

_Someone watches you, you will not fail_

_Be not so nervous, be not so frail_

_Be not so nervous, be not so frail_

The spotlight was so bright it blinded Beth, but she's didn't care. The words she'd spent hours agonizing over, scraping the bottom of the barrel in search for, are building up and spilling out. She's floating high in the clouds, the distractions fading around her: the state of the Cherokee Rose Bar, the three of nine people who'd took the time to watch her sing, the note she'd missed in the chorus.

She's never felt like this, like she's untouchable.

_Be not so sorry for what you've done_

_You must forget them now, it's done_

_And when you wake up you will find you can run_

_Be not so sorry for what you've done_

After realizing Daryl had lost his set of keys inside the bar, he'd been forced to return. He had it all planned out in his head—go in, ignore the cute girl, find his keys, and leave—and yet all logic had fled his mind the moment he stepped through that door. Because the girl was at the focal point of the room now, onstage and surrounded in a halo of light, a vision of an angel come down from heaven. Somehow, she managed to see him, navigating the sea of chairs, tables and lost souls to find his gaze, locked on hers. And then she starts to sing, and Daryl's world stops.

_Be not so fearful, be not so pale_

_Someone watches you, you will not leave the rails_

_Be not so fearful, be not so pale_

_Be not so fearful, be not so pale_

He thought his night would start and end in a depressive stupor, his source of comfort limited to booze or drugs or women, but instead he'd found her, Beth—he'd heard her name was Beth. It even sounded like her; pure and clean and innocent.

_Be not so sorry for what you've done_

_You must forget them now, it's done_

The lyrics wereare irrelevant to Daryl, no more than a nonsensical jumble of noises—it's the way she sings it. She's perched on the stool like a long-legged goddess, legs bent and guitar resting across her lap, singing as if she wereas in someplace worthy of her presence. Her hands strum the strings of the acoustic guitar in a well-tuned action, the words rolling off her tongue in a seamless motion.

_And when you wake up you will find you can run_

_Be not so sorry for what you've done_

And, in the cold, empty place hidden deep in his chest, hollowed out by his kin—mother, father, brother—Daryl felt something. A beat, a jump, an unfurling of something good and foreign and _nice_. It hit him hard, clenching a muscle beneath his sternum. And it fuckin' terrified and excited him at the same time, and he's unable to understand it—to wrap his head around feeling something for a girl he didn't even know.

In lieu of the ache in his chest and the incessant pounding in his head, Daryl had abandoned the open bar to claim sanctuary in the bathroom.

Although Beth couldn't see past the glare of the spotlight, she'd been attuned to the presence of _him_—standing still in the doorway, watching her as she watched him. The shadow of him had passed though the bar, sending intermittent glances her way all the while, and then he'd disappeared into the communal bathroom. Once the song ended and the words had trickled to a halt Beth had looked down, her inhibitions and fears taking root, but her gaze was forced back up at the sound of applause. It was Carol, at the bar, wooing and clapping and grinning up a storm.

Then, illuminated in the one spot of light in the Cherokee Rose Bar, the strange, older man with angel wings and too-long hair is forgotten to Beth. Carol and her daddy and Maggie are forgotten. And she _sings_, high and clear, her voice echoing in the dim atmosphere of the room, causing the drunk and lost and hurt to look at her and feel—as Daryl was doing in the bathroom at that very instant.

And she transcended.


	2. Rick & Co Music

In the bathroom the girl's song is dull and quiet, a displaced sound. Daryl's holding onto the edge of the porcelain sink, staring hard at the metal drain, noticing the film of grime and hair and mould. Shaking his head, he tried to dislodge Beth's voice, a sweet lull that circulates through his brain, but he couldn't. It's stuck there, reverberating through his chest, tingling in his fingertips, strumming through him. He's unable to escape it—this feeling, this unnameable affliction.

He looked up at the reflection of him—a blurred mirror image that hides the scars and wrinkles and pain.

The door swung open and Beth's voice is loud and insistent before quieting.

A man—wearing all black, an example of taste and polish—took the sink closest to him, running his hands under the stream of lukewarm water. "She's something, isn't she?" he said after a moment's silence, turning to address Daryl.

"What?" He's anchored to the sink, his gut a roiling mass of emotion.

"The girl onstage. Singing."

The younger Dixon brother nodded once in a curt motion, making it painfully obvious he had no interest in the bearded man or whatever he was talking about—his conversational skills had never something to envy. But the man remained, casual and at ease, talking to Daryl as if he'd known him his entire life. The man's presumptuous nature and relaxed personality caused a wave of anger to surge in Daryl. He hates people like him—with their perfect lives in order and non-existent emotional baggage.

The bearded man even had a face that seemed to be locked away in the reaches of his subconscious. He had a collection of features that seemed to be cut from rough stone, the flash of a smile triggering a definite memory—Daryl had once glimpsed him on the back of a magazine in a supermarket, the man forever immortalised in a glossy, high-definition snapshot. Rick was his name—Rick Grimes.

"She's got talent," the bearded man said, "that's for sure."

Daryl reframed from replying, or even acknowledging the man, but he didn't seem to notice.

He used a paper towel to wipe his hands clean, moving with all the time in the world. "I'm part-owner of a music company, you see"—he pulled a card out of his jacket, presenting it to Daryl with a businessman-like flair—"and I was gonna ask her to send in a demo track. This generation is deprived of talent and voice, but I can see she has spirit. Confidence, skill. She has a future—"

The bearded man's cell rings abruptly in his pocket, and he placed the card down on the sink to answer it. "Lori, what's—" A shrill voice sounded at the end of the line, silencing him. A crinkle appeared between his eyebrows, the tension evident in the stiff line of his profile. "Yeah, I'm still here—" He sighed, running a hand through his hair—no longer tame and gel-slick. "The Cherokee Rose Bar, I'm at the Cherokee Rose Bar."

Daryl glanced at the card resting on the sink, all professional and neat. The girl would lap it up, he thought. Smile and dance and hug the bearded man, thanking him over and over again in a rush, unable to contain her naïve excitement. For a small fraction of a second, Daryl wished talking—like he'd ever be able to do that without Beth turning her pert lil' nose up at him—to her would be that simple. That he'd just go up and—

—An idea strikes him, square in the chest.

Daryl looked again at the card on the sink, and then to the man—his back was turned to him, talking in low tones. All he wanted was to talk to Beth, to work out his feelings and hopefully dispel them all together. Spurred on by the sudden realization, he hurried to wash his face in cupped hands of water, erasing the traces of dirt and grime and age. Daryl tucked his shirt into his pants and cleaned whatever other part of him stinks with sweat and booze, camouflaging stains and dirt on his clothes with dabs of water.

With one last look at the man, he took the card and left.

In the open bar Beth was still singing—it's memorising, the sight of her. Without tearing hiser gaze from the angel up on stage, Daryl meandered to his stool, fingers finding his keys on the counter and tucking them into his pocket. A wave of relief rushed through him when the bearded man emerged from the bathroom, passing him without a second glance until he's outside—gone.

Daryl waited, an elbow resting on the bar, watching Beth. He noticed how her shirt rides up when she moves, exposing a strip of pale skin. And her hands—small and delicate and smooth. How she sings like she's in another place, like she's in the centre of a giant stadium, surrounded by a million different people chanting her name.

Beth's world hads stripped back to the feel of the guitar under fingers and the lyrics in her head. She didn't feel the hard seat of her stool, or notice the crowd of two people watching her, and she didn't care that this was just another insignificant night of many to come—because this was what Beth loved about music. It was meant to be an out-of-body experience, it was meant to affect you, and it was meant to make you _feel_.

She had chosen to sing Sam Hunt's "Raised On It" in homage to her Georgian childhood, and then Johnny Cash's "A Boy Named Sue" for a touch of humour, Bastille's "Icarus" for an alternative sound and, finally, Jamie N. Common's "Lead Me Home" for a more sombre end. Beth had also found it a sad, gospel-like song where a lost soul had wandered the Earth in search for meaning. A metaphorical home of sorts. It was a beautiful mixture of Southern gothic-inspired influences, a tone which Beth thought appealed to the overall mood of the Cherokee Rose Bar.

When the song was finished Beth leaned close to the microphone. "Good night and joy be with you all," she said softly, her voice a tad husky, echoing the words of the song she and her sister were famous for singing.

She stepped off her stool, back twinging with soreness and fingers raw, loving the beautiful ache of her limbs. It was the pain of accomplishment, of doing something real. Beth placed her guitar in its case, clipping it shut, registering the sounds of fast-approaching her footsteps. Expecting it to be Carol, she turned, her face flushed with exertion and smiling.

Instead of the bartender, it was him.

Daryl had to work up one hell of a nerve to walk over to Beth, even taking a few notes from his slim wallet to buy a drink and settle his stomach. He didn't know half of her songs, but the last one had—somehow, impossibly—resonated with him, the lyrics all slow and mournful and dark. She treated her songs like lovers, gentle and respectful of their needs, near-caressing the words.

He'd taken the drink from the bartender and downed it, noticing how she seemed to be more focused on Beth than he was, but the woman was merely impressed—Daryl was entranced. Running his fingers through his hair, combing it in quick strokes, and airing his shirt of the stink of sweat, he put one foot in front of the other and started walking.

Talking had never been his forte, and women—proper, clean, polite women—set him on edge. He didn't fit into their neat, perfect little world and they knew it, choosing to look down at him like the redneck trash he was. The distance shortened between Daryl and Beth, and the closer he got to her the faster his pulse raced, the more his palms began to sweat. She was crouched on the ground, clothes hugging all the soft curves and angles of her slim profile, golden hair spilling over a shoulder.

She turns and—

—Daryl's. Heart. Stopped. Beating.

He had never realized how beautiful she was until this moment, just how radiant and bright she was, glowing with an inner light that was just so rare in this world. She's smiling at him too, directing all that sweet goodness onto him.

"Uh . . ." _Fuck. _Words_. Fuck._

And then she's holding her hand out to him in a form of greeting Daryl thought was too old-fashioned to exist. "I'm Beth Greene," she said, sounding more feminine and magical than she had at the bar, three seats down from him. He didn't know he'd taken her hand until he feels a firm pressure, squeezing his fingers. The younger Dixon brother is surprised to feel callouses marking her hand, or how she gripped his hand in a firm and unwavering hold.

Their gazes are locked, joined hands establishing a connection between the two. Soon Daryl is forced to drop his hand and avert his gaze, overwhelmed at the wonderful sensation of it all—skin, heat, attention.

He's practically thrumming with nervous energy, choosing to position his hands on his hips to keep them from shaking. Beth tracked his movements, lingering on his lean hips and slim waist, again flushing with embarrassment at her forwardness. She had never been so attracted before, not even to her boyfriend's. But both Jimmy and Zach paled in comparison to the rugged man eying her out from under a fringe of dark hair, both enigmatic and alluring in appearance.

Somehow, he managed to remember his own name: "Daryl Dixon." His fingers found the card in his back pocket, torn between wanting to know this girl and telling her the truth. But he looked from the thin, rectangular card in her hands to her face and it _hurt_. No matter how short it lasted or how bitter the end would be, he wanted to have a light flickering at the end of the dark tunnel for him, a source of hope in his life.

So, Daryl held the card out to her, mimicking the prior actions of the bearded man. "Part-owner of Rick & Co. Music."

He watcheds her expression, morphing from shock to happiness to elation. "Oh my God, oh my God." Beth's fanning her cheeks, and then holding her palm to her mouth as to stifle her giggles. "Rick & Co. Music? The Rick & Co. Music? Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I am."

She's dancing on the spot, unable to contain her infectious mirth. The corner of Daryl's mouth almost curled up into a crooked smirk at her behaviour, pulling his features into something tight and foreign. And then she managed to steal the air from his lung in about two seconds, also knotting his stomach into a feeling of guilt in which he would learn to endure:

Beth hugged him, arms around his neck and pressed close.

Daryl was—naturally—stunned, his knee-jerk reaction being to pull from Beth's embrace and ignore the fluttering in his chest. Instead, his hands raised from their place at his sides on their own accord, without his thought or permission, to cup her delicate elbows in some attempt of physical contact. Wisps of her hair tickle his cheek, and he can't help but notice the rounded curve of her breasts and the bones of her hips pressed flush against him. She smelled like ground coffee beans and fresh shampoo.

Beth too ignored the voice in the back of her head, telling her this was inappropriate, but she didn't care. This was it, this was her moment, and this man—the name Daryl Dixon rolling around her head in a molasses-thick drawl—had just handed it to her on a plate. Nothing could stop her, not even if Hershel Greene walked through that door right now with a shotgun in his hands. She was invincible, wrapped around a man she didn't know in a sleazy bar on the wrong side of town.

Daryl pulled away, scratching at his forehead with two fingers, making it evidently clear another hug was not in their immediate future.

"Do you have the rest of the night off?"

He didn't know exactly what Beth was proposing, so he substituted for shaking his head.

"Okay," she checked her cell for the time, "Daddy set the curfew at eleven o'clock. That gives us about two hours. Is that enough time to iron out the details?"

Again—_fuck_.

"Um, yeah, it should work out nicely." Daryl has no idea how to pull this off now. He's out of his depth, in over his head. He didn't know a thing about music or business or how to articulate a coherent sentence around a girl as beautiful as Beth.

Beth situates her guitar at a nearby booth, closest to the stage, and excused herself to go to the bathroom. Abandoning all pretences of manners, he watches her leave with the blatant intention of staring at her ass, but instead focuses on the skip in her step and the bounce of her wheat-coloured hair. He knew she was too good for him, but he couldn't help it. Daryl was drawn to that girl, unable to shake the feeling of compulsion—she's something special, an once-in-a-lifetime experience.

In the communal bathroom Beth gazed at her reflection: taking in the face-splitting smile and the red blush creeping up the smooth column of her neck, how irrevocably happy she is in this moment. She splashed cold water over her face, attempting to soothe her into a cool, calm, collected state so then she could at least pretend to exert a veneer of professionalism. When Beth turned her head to nuzzle the fabric of her collar she could still smell Daryl on her—motor oil and leather and dirt—and the sweat that coated his skin, the grease in his hair. Heat—or something close to desire—runs hot through her and Beth splasheds water onto her face again, flustered for an entirely different reason.

When she has gathered her thoughts and reined in her emotions Beth found Daryl sitting in the same corner, chewing on his thumb as Carol set two pints of beer before him. Beth returned Carol's grin when she passed the older woman, thankful for her newfound support. Daryl stared at her as she slid into the booth opposite him, his sinewy arms resting on the back of his seat in a casual—even though he was anything but—position.

Beth turned the pint around on the table, raising it to her lips. The dark liquid sloshes at the glass rim, her virgin nose screwing up at the heady aroma—beer was an acquired taste, and Beth usually opted for whatever was passed around in red solo cups at a bonfire.

"Homebrew," Daryl commented, gesturing at the drink. "On the house."

She nodded, holding up the pint and scrutinising it through the glass. Instead of drinking she returned the drink to the table and crossed her arms, looking at Daryl. "You said you were part-owner, right? Of Rick & Co. Music?"

He avoided the question, instead taking a long draft of the homebrew, the delicious muscles of his tanned neck working. "That's right." He said finally. "Part-owner."

"So, what do we exactly do from here? Do I make a demo CD or something?" She's thought back to all the stories she'd read online, about how different artist's experiences varied. Nothing was set in stone, but she had to be positive. Proactive. Show him how much she wanted this and how hard she would work. "Do we make an appointment or—"

"Demo track." Daryl blurted, gaze flickering from her and down to centre himself. He grappled for the right words, ones that she would believe: "You need a demo track and then . . .and then we listen to it and decide if we like it and . . . negotiate terms of a recording contract. But it takes time. It's no walk in the park, Beth."

She's staring at him, listening as she leaned forward, like his words meant something to her. As if he was important to her. Daryl had never been treated like that, with someone's attention focused solely on every little thing he did—the sporadic gestures he made with his hands, how long he kept the rim of the homebrew to his lips, his brusque Southern-thick speech. He repressed the urge to sneer at Beth for being so naïve and trusting him, but when a strand of sunshine-bright hair escaped her ponytail all thoughts—negative or otherwise—fled his mind.

"Where do I record? Is it a CD or cassette tape?"

Beth's voice is ringing in his ears, and Daryl shakes his head before he replied. "CD. We don't do cassette tapes."

After a moments silence she spoke again. "And where do I record it?"

"Uh . . ." Daryl didn't even know if there was a recording studio in fifty mile radius of here, and certainly couldn't—or wouldn't—organise one to record a fake demo track with his non-existent bank account. "At Rick & Co. Music we pride ourselves on self-reliance and determination. You have to come to us with a perfect demo track. It's your career, Beth, not ours."

Beth's worried her bottom lip between her teeth, an action that was both cute and sensual—and far too arousing. A rush of heat travelled straight to his groian, and Daryl's gazes slid from Beth to the circle of dark liquid held between his fingers, unable to block out the images of Beth biting her lip under different circumstances—cheeks flushed, panting, limbs entangled, skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat. A red blush creepted up his neck, hidden beneath dirt, tan and strands of dark hair.

Beth didn't notice Daryl shifting in his seat, fighting with some inner turmoil. Instead, she thought of her songs—her real songs, no more than scribbles on a page in her diary—and wondered how she was ever going to turn them into something more. The lyrics were all there, disjointed sentences and brief bursts of inspiration, and Beth had been singing them under her breath ever since she was sixteen. She just needed to hire a real recording studio, she needed to perfect her sound, and she needed to be more than Beth Greene—the daughter of Hershel Greene and sister of Maggie Greene, part-time waitress and aspiring musician.

At that exact moment when both of them were lost to their own thoughts Carol wandered over. She'd been wary of the man—Daryl Dixon, she'ds heard him introduce himself as—ever since he sidled up to Beth with a shyness Carol would've usually found endearing, but it'd quickly turned to a motherly-type concern when Beth had thrown her arms around him, squealing.

Daryl and Beth both looked at Carol, relief evident on their faces, her presence offering respite from their own troubled thoughts. "Beth," the bartender said, "that was a great show." Casting a fleeting glance—noticing how he was hunched forward in a child-like position, more a boy than a man—she continued, "And I was wondering if you'd like to do the same thing next week. Same time, same place?"

Beth snuck a peek at Daryl, searching for his permission, and his gaze met hers and _held_.

Again, his traitorous body moved on autopilot, and he nodded in an imperceptible motion.

After Carol had left, unnerved at the odd interaction between the two—equal parts strange and riveting to watch—but Daryl's introverted behaviour had put her mind at ease. He was no more than a hard exterior with a soft inside.

Beth took a swig of the homebrew, the bitter taste filling her mouth, and swallowed. Invigorated, she turned to the man across the booth whilst channelling Maggie's iron-strong will; her chin held high and slim shoulders squared. She had to find a way to make this work, balancing the start of her music career and home life and other responsibilities, but Daryl Dixon was the key to all this. He was her golden ticket, no matter what she felt for him this would have to remain a professional business relationship.

She spoke in confidence, wielding all the authority she'd inherited from her father. "I'm going to be near here next Friday night, Mr. Dixon"—Daryl didn't want to imagine how his name sounded on her lips, not after hearing _Dixon_ roll off her tongue—"and I expect you to be too."

His mouth quirked into the inkling of a smile—slow and small—and for the first time this night he felt like himself. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Greene." He said.

And then, lower, his mind whispered to him: _But just for how long?_


	3. Slabtown

**Trigger warnings for sexual assault in this chapter, cherries, but other than that hope you like it.**

* * *

><p>A few select words—Cherokee Rose Bar, Friday, 8:30—had been on a loop in Daryl's head, ringing loud and clear in his ears ever since that fateful night—always punctuated by a name that still had yet to fail to rob him of his breath—<em>Beth Greene<em>.

Beth fuckin' Greene.

He had counted four nights, four nights he had waited for his songbird in the dark corner booth of the Cherokee Rose Bar. A month was no more than a blink of an eye in his miserable thirty-seven years, but now it felt like his life could be cleaved in two—before and after Beth. Before Beth it had been dark and hopeless, without a light glimmering at the end of the tunnel, but now he had a reason to persevere, despite how twisted the logic of it was. Lying to Beth had never ceased to send a sharp spike of guilt and pain tearing through Daryl, but he knew the feeling would be increased tenfold if he ever told her the truth.

To Daryl it was a trail in itself to keep up the act of a music producer, or even someone in a semi-important position, instead of playing the usual redneck asshole extraordinaire. He had to pretend to analyse her performance every week, music and tone and pitch, in lieu of finding an excuse to stare at her. The younger Dixon brother felt like a dirty old man for doing so, but he knew it was as close as he would ever get to her.

Beth had never been so attuned to another presence until she met Daryl. Her thoughts were consumed with his rough hands or tanned skin or shaggy hair, and she had never felt more self-conscious than when she was up on stage. It was the only time he would permit himself to look at her, free from his inhibitions.

Accidental touches—a hand on her elbow, following her out of the bar or guiding her to his bike—and quick, hidden looks—when Beth's would search for Daryl over her guitar or when Daryl was focused on any point in the room that included her—[JL1] were enough to tide them over. For now—even though Daryl was lying straight to Beth's face and Beth believed that Daryl meant nothing more to her than a professional business relationship—that would do.

Carol—he'd been acquainted, even endeared, to the grey-haired bartender—slid a beer across the table to him. She had seemed to accept Daryl's relationship with Beth now, even though she'd adopted a protective mama bear-type approach to matters that directly affected Beth. She reminded Carol of her own daughter, Sophia, who was full of hope and light and promise.

"She's coming," Carol said, surprising both herself and Daryl.

His eyes widened, and then narrowed as he looked away, trying to mask the emotions that had bubbled to the surface. "I know," he murmured, twirling the bottle around on the table.

Carol nodded, trailing back to the bar, catching a flash of blonde hair and bright clothes in her peripheral vision. At a secondary glance Beth waved at her, smiling, but the object of her attention was elsewhere. Another person.

Daryl watched her approach without daring to look at her, without making it obvious that his world revolved around her. She slid into the booth and finally Daryl could raise his head, meeting her eyes through strands of dark hair.

Beth's fingers itched to brush the hair from his eyes.

And Daryl longed to reach out and hook the strap of her singlet back over her shoulder.

They both pretended they didn't want to touch each other, that they didn't feel the underlying bond that exceeded logic and time, and they denied themselves to feel.

As they had for the last month, Daryl and Beth began to talk.

He found out Beth liked coffee—although it was second to none to chai lattes—and her favourite food was mac and cheese. She also liked music and horses and people and Georgia in the springtime. She told him all of her little daydreams, thinking that he would find her silly or naïve, but Daryl just smiled at her out from under a dangerously soft gaze. It twisted his insides that he could look at her and feel so much, without thought or reason to why.

She loved her family—her daddy and sister—somethin' fierce, but she was reluctant to speak of her mother or brother. It was clear to Daryl that they had departed this world long ago, and he was almost compelled to tell her of his parents—dead, although with no one left to mourn them.

Her daddy was a local veterinarian and a good Christian farmer, toiling hard on his land longer than Daryl had been alive. He could just picture Beth's father, this man—probably a cornerstone of the tight-knit community and important in every way he wasn't—staring down at him on from his big ole porch, shotgun in hand and telling him to get the hell of his property. Daryl knew he never made the best first impression—tattoos and rumpled, second-hand clothes and lack of personal hygiene—but once the name Dixon crossed his lips it was game over.

Daryl breathed a sigh of relief when Beth said she was twenty-one. Her youthful appearance was something that kept him up tossin' and turnin' late at night. At least it was legal in the eyes of the law, no matter how society would perceive the likes of him hanging around a girl like Beth. His response to when she asked how old he was a mutter about him being younger than her daddy and older than her. She smiled at his words, biting her lip to reframe from pressing the subject.

Beth worked as a part-time waitress at a local diner and sometimes at her daddy's veterinary clinic. She had no interest in going to college other than to do music. She spoke of her father's disapproval of her life choices, reminding her ceaselessly of how he never had the opportunities she did. But she loved music, Daryl could see just how by reading the nuance in her expression; the sparkle in her eyes, face-splitting smile and colour in her cheeks. Beth would never give up music, even if she ended up as a housewife or a vet like her daddy she'd always find a few minutes a day to sit down and strum her guitar, writing little tunes she would sing under her breath later.

"Then why are you still here?" Daryl asked one night, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. "Why haven't you gone to some fancy-schmancy college yet? Or done something with your music besides singing in bars your father doesn't know about?"

He said it in a way that wasn't unkind, but the comment struck something deep in Beth's chest. "Because of my family." Beth sighed, a glimmer of light fading in her eyes—the sight forcing Daryl to tuck his cigarette back into the pack. "Maggie's moving to Atlanta with her long-time boyfriend in a few months. Daddy just thinks that she would follow Glenn anywhere and that's why she's going, but I know she wants to be more than what she can in this town. She doesn't know what she wants to do yet, but at least she has a choice."

"Why don't you just go with her?" Daryl's still didn't understand why she didn't leave this place the moment she got her high school diploma. Beth could damn well do anything she wanted to.

"Because . . ." Beth paused, searching for the right words. "Daddy doesn't say it, but he would be lonely." She's not looking at him, hasn't been for a while now. Daryl wanted to reach out and touch her hand, comfort her somehow, but it's never that simple. "When my momma and Shawn died . . . he went back to drinking. It only happened once, but all I can remember is waking up in the middle of the night and hearing him cry. I'd never seen Daddy cry before." Daryl never thought you could smile whilst fighting back tears, but here Beth was, defeating the odds.

"He was downstairs," she said, "sitting in my momma's chair. I was gonna go over and ask him what was wrong, but then I saw the drink in his hand. I didn't even know we had alcohol in the house—Mom had poured a bottle of vodka Maggie had snuck in down the sink once, but that was it. I watched him cry and I didn't do anything about it. I couldn't." Beth was twirling a gold ring around her finger almost fervidly, oblivious to her own actions. "I don't think he could cope being alone again. It would kill him."

"Are you just saying that for your benefit or his?" He knew it was the wrong thing to say, but he'd always been one for giving it straight.

"What?"

"I mean," he rubbed the back of his neck, "you said your father did that once, years ago. What's to say he'd do the same thing now? You would be leaving to do the thing you love, not dying." Daryl saw her flinch at his words, but he couldn't dance around the subject. "Beth, are you saying that your daddy would die if you left just so you have a reason to stay?"

"I don't—" Beth's mouth hung open, her delicate brow creased into an expression of anger, shock and hurt—emotions Daryl never wanted to see morphing her pretty face again. "I don't—I do not make up excuses—" She stopped herself, griping hopelessly for an appropriate response. "Why would I ever—" Infuriated, and more stung by the truth of Daryl's observation than she cared to admit, Beth stood up with her guitar slung over her shoulder.

"You know what, Daryl Dixon?" She didn't give him time to answer. "You have no right to assume who I am or the choices I make. You do not know me."

And with that, Beth left him sitting stupid in a dark corner of the Cherokee Rose Bar, watching her leave as a hole was ripped open in his chest.

His body was already moving, shuffling out of the constricting space trapped between the table and his seat, following Beth outside with his only thought being to get her back. Daryl was trained on Beth's retreating form, slipping out the door without looking back. He had underestimated her—just how she could be so strong even though he hurt her, even though this would be the end to her music career in her mind.

The doors snapped open as Daryl burst outside, his gaze frantically searched the sidewalk for a glimpse of blonde hair, long, jean-clad legs and the bulking shape of a guitar. He spotted her slim profile further down the street, travelling further into the dark reaches of town. She didn't know what laid in wait there, the booze, drugs and men, the kind of people whose hands had been stained with layer upon layer of blood long ago. It was a den of vice, a maw of blackness with its mouth open and ready to devour whatever shred of light and goodness wandered inside.

And Beth was walking towards it.

"Beth!" he called, his previous worries forgotten in lieu of the threat of danger.

She didn't spare him a cursory glance, her pace quickening.

He sprinted after, near screaming her name. "Beth? Beth!" The darkness was almost a tangible and malevolent presence as it reached to capture her in its grasp. Daryl's senses—honed and sharp by years of hunting—zoned in onto the circle of orange heat glowing in an alleyway near Beth. Someone was there, smoking, a few mere feet from Beth. He watched in abject horror—a feeling that was unknown to him—as a hand shot out to grab her arm, pulling her whole into the darkness.

He heard her shriek in fear, and the sound of wood striking a solid object.

Daryl had never run as fast or as hard to the spot Beth had disappeared. The sounds were still there, echoing through the small, ominous space, only muffled and quiet. He knelt to unsheathe the knife he'd tucked into his boot, arming himself before stepping into the alleyway. He wasn't afraid—hell, the only thing that'd inspired fear in him was his father—but never in his life had someone he cared for had been threatened.

And it was because of him. Beth was scared and alone because of him.

A scream pierced the still night air before cutting off into an abrupt end, the noise stifled. Daryl's body went rigid, his knees bending and shoulders loosening in preparation for a fight. He slipped into the role of a hunter, relying on the senses of sound and sight and smell to pinpoint Beth's location. He could hear scuffled footsteps and soft whimpers, distinguishing two silhouettes pressed flush to a decrepit fire escape in the gloom, a few feet forward and to the left of him.

"Let go of her," he growled, approaching the fire escape with his blade angled down in his palm.

Silence.

"Let. Go." Daryl repeated. It was a threat, plain and simple, laden with a seething promise of pain if his demands were not met. He would not trip or falter, not when Beth's life was at stake.

A whisper of fabric, a meaty thud, limbs thrashing and—

"—Daryl!"

It was his name, screamed in a sweet, feminine voice full of pain and terror. That sound caused something to clench in his chest, twisting something fierce right below his breastbone. Never should Beth of known such emotions other than peace and love happiness in this world.

His eyes had limited time to adjust to the darkness, but he could discern the smallest of details—the smell of sour apples, moonlight glinting upon pale hair, a jacketed hand wrapped around the waist of Beth's T-shirt, a hand and head bent low to the side of her neck.

His teeth gritted, jaw locked shut. "Let her go."

"Or what—?"

Another thump of flesh upon flesh, and then Beth had broken free of her bounds. Daryl heard her gasp his name, glimpsed her pale hand reach out into the shadows for him. He lunged forward, gripping Beth's arm in an iron-strong hold before roughly jerking her to him. The sharp, sudden force of Daryl wrenching her forward caused Beth to stumble on loose gravel, grasping desperately for purchase. But, she was quick to find her footing, outstretched fingers coming into contact with the bare skin of his arms and _holding_.

"Daryl," she whispered hoarsely, his name sounding like a prayer on her lips.

"I'm here, Beth. I'm here," he said, offering Beth what comfort he could.

Her fingernails dug into his arm, the pressure sharp and insistent, but the rush of adrenaline dulled the pain. Beth clung to Daryl like he was an anchor in the storm, centring herself on the feel of his lean muscle beneath her touch. One of Beth's hands gripped the back of his shirt in a white-knuckled hold and the other was at his bicep, the point of Daryl's hipbone hard against her stomach. Every inch of her body was pressed to his—legs, arms and torso. Her face was close to the flat of his shoulder, nose brushing against the thin fabric of his clothed back, a hint of sweat, oil and leather filling her nostrils.

Her assailant stepped out from the shadows, clutching at his stomach—Daryl was filled with a twisted sense of pride at knowing that Beth was able to defend herself. The younger Dixon brother gleaned a few features of the man—white, average looks, short, dark hair and beady little weasel eyes—and committed them to memory. He would not forget him easily.

"Get the fuck out," Daryl spat, words dripping with a vehemence that was damn near poisonous.

The man surged forward in one last desperate attempt to gain control of the situation. Daryl rebuffed his advances easily, thrusting the flat of his palm up into the man's nose, feeling the cartilage crunch beneath. He stumbled backwards, holding a hand to his nose to stem the gushing of red blood. Again, he lunged, and Daryl's reaction was natural and instantaneous—swiping his blade across the man's vulnerable forearm, cutting though flesh and scraping bone.

Daryl's senses were honed after years of hunting, and his reflexes were sharp from punches and kicks swung his way in drunken, stupid brawls, having long grown resistant to pain. His opponent was a lowlife in all matters that counted, untrained and sloppy in his actions. If there ever was a competition to be had, Daryl would've won.

The man left, disappearing into the darkness from which he came.[JL2]

Not until his footsteps had echoed and faded into the night was Daryl able to feel a semblance of safety was over him. The strain eased from between Daryl's shoulders, his fighting stance relaxing as the tension slowly bleed out from his muscles. "Beth?" He turned, tucking his knife into the taut loop of his belt. "Beth, are you okay—?"

Beth crashed into his chest, arms tightening around his neck and stubble scraping against her cheek. She started to cry, small, pitiful sobs racking her body. Whatever coherent thoughts or words of comfort he planned on saying fled his mind. The noise was vulnerable and weak—emotions Daryl didn't align himself too—but his heart twisted painfully at hearing Beth's pain.

"Are you okay?" he asked again, attempting to extract her from him. "Beth, did he hurt you?"

She held onto him without showing the intention of ever letting go.

Daryl was in sensory overload, the sound and feel and smell of Beth wrapped around him causing a fog to enter his mind. It was too much all at once—too much for Daryl to handle or grasp the concept of, nonetheless understand. He was concerned for Beth's wellbeing, worried that she had suffered under that man's hands, and angry at himself for causing her to come out here in the first place. It didn't soothe the roiling mass in his gut, or the ache in his chest.

Daryl realized he cared for this girl, more than he should.

"Did he hurt you?" He was able to put some space between them this time, but now their shared closeness seemed to be more intimate in nature—lips a hairs breadth away, foreheads touching, gazes locked.

She shook her head.

Daryl breathed a sigh of relief, his hand moving unbidden to cup her cheek. Her skin was soft and smooth underneath his palm, but the tremor that rolled through her did not go unnoticed. She held onto him far longer than it was appropriate, glad that he'd been there to save her, glad that he was so close to her.

"Daryl?" Her voice wavered, but she held strong.

"Yeah?"

Her fingers dug deeper into his back. "Thank you."

It was wrong and twisted and borne in fear and darkness, but the foundations to a bond was laid between the pair that night. One that could never been broken.


	4. Blue Toothbrush

**Chapter 4: Blue Toothbrush**

After that night Beth seemed to shine.

She was something from a dream: sunshine-bright hair and cornflower-blue eyes and smooth skin. She seemed to place her trust in him, and then his devotion in her. The image of her—onstage, singing, caught up in her own little world—haunted him. She wasn't real; there was no reason she could be. He knew she didn't exist for him. She would never belong to him—Daryl was one person in her world, and yet she was already the world to him. He was a passing blimp in her life, a face she would glance at twice in the crowd, thinking he looked familiar in the back of her mind before forgetting him.

He knew—already—that the time he spent with her would be the greatest moments of his small, insignificant life. That she would eventually discover his lie and leave him like so many others had before, progressing onto the things she deserved—fame, happiness, recognition, love.

He would glimmer and fade into a fragment of a memory that would surface only on cold winter mornings and when sunlight filtered through the treetops.

Another Friday night rolled around in a flash, a pressure weighing deep in the younger Dixon brother's stomach all the while. And then Daryl's pulling his bike up to the Cherokee Rose Bar, and then he's walking inside and ordering a drink. He took up his usual position—buzzed, broke and alone—at the bar, waiting for the doors to open, waiting for _her_.

And then she's there.

His head snapped to the side, her feet—pale brown boots with straps, different from the last pair—entering his vision and then travelling up skin-tight jeans and a long white singlet pulled over her hips and a too-bright sweater. Her guitar's slung over her shoulder. Beth's hair was pulled into a loose knot at the back of her neck, and a silver chain hanging down her front, bouncing with every step. She smiled when her gaze landed on him, the sight spurring Daryl into action.

The distance shortened between them, almost too close, and then he's reaching for the strap of her guitar. His fingers—dirty, calloused, unworthy—brushed her shoulder. Beth looked at her hand, watching as it arranged the guitar over his shoulder, and then her soft, open gaze flickered to him.

To Beth, once again the past week had been limited to one thought alone: of Daryl Dixon.

Most nights she'd raced blindly past her daddy—sitting in the front room, reading the Bible by weak candlelight—and locked her bedroom door shut. Their first encounter had left excitement and fervid enthusiasm and incentive and a million different emotions were burning inside her, never before as strong. She'd rummaged through her nightstand until her fingers met the pale green, rounded spine of her diary. Sitting on the bed, she flicked through pages and pages of her own looped, animated writing, pouring over numerous lyrics and poems and fragments of sentences and whatever else she'd written down during bouts of inspiration. Trying to find a song that just _clicked_, that she could use as a demo track.

There was "Blue Toothbrush", her first real song, sweet and simple.

And "Expired Lover", something she'd scrawled down after her break-up with Zach.

And "Rockstar", her latest pop-chic attempt.

It was all here, but she just had to turn them into songs. She spent the whole night sitting cross-legged on her bed, and then on her stomach on the ground, the window seat, up on her bathroom sink. Scrunched-up pieces of paper and her diary alternated positions around the room. Beth had changed into sweatpants and a loose T-shirt but decided to keep the flannel on—just so when she turned her head to the side she'd catch a whiff of oil and leather. At 3am she's still awake, abuzz with caffeine pumping through her veins and the taste coffee grinds stuck between her teeth. Beth had taken to strumming the chords of her guitar, humming beneath her breath. The familiar weight of the instrument and the echo of "Be Not So Fearful" transported her to—

—She's at the Cherokee Rose Bar, swathed in light and the sound of her own voice, staring at the silhouetted figure watching her.

_Daryl Dixon_.

Beth didn't fail to notice how his name causes her to feel an ache, a hunger low in her tummy. She crosses her legs to create friction, delight sparking through her. Her pen tipped to the page of her diary, the words starting to pour out of her. She finds her blankie, envisioning them as Daryl's rough hands. When her hips begin to move she imagines it's in tandem with his. And when a breath of hot air escapes past her lips she pictured the skin of his exposed neck, and the place where she would lay a soft kiss afterwards.

Beth had never been so worked up before in the absence of a boy. It's just her and the phantom of Daryl Dixon, moving in the dim light of her childhood bedroom, doing secret little things. Even though no less than ten years separated them, and she didn't know much more than his name and profession, Beth couldn't deny the magnetic pull she felt towards Daryl. That deep, base connection. So, she does what she can: she writes a song about him—or, well, the lack thereof—called "Just Pretend".

And now here she is, standing at the threshold of the Cherokee Rose Bar again, with a guitar case and a head full of songs. Casting her gaze across the dimly-light interior, from the cherry booths to ornamental wallpaper to spindly bar stools, Beth searched for a lean figure with angel wings. He's seated at the bar, watching her watch him—and then he's moving towards her.

Her pulse is racing, cheeks flushing at the thought of "Just Pretend". Of the wave of heat and desire it sparked within her whenever she dared to sing it aloud—_I just pretend, just pretend, I can taste your sweat/I just pretend, just pretend, you can hear my breath_. Of the weird look Maggie sent her after she first heard Beth murmuring the chorus when washing the dishes.

Turns out Daryl Dixon cleans up nice—_real_ nice—wearing something other than ripped jeans and a checked shirt for once in his short life. He had a nice blue button-up on under his vest and the numerous holes and tears are stitched on his jeans, but there's dirt marking his boots and his hair was greasy. The old redneck was still there, hiding under the façade of something who actually had their shit together. He reached out to unhook the guitar strap from her arm like a real gentleman, his long, nimble fingers grazing her shoulder.

The shared contact is short in length but large in magnitude, drawing Beth to scrutinise Daryl's reaction—if the experience was mutual. He's breathing through a parted mouth, hand lingering by the curve of her sweater-clad arm before shouldering the weight of the guitar, blinking as if to erase an image from the back of his eyelids. Beth wished she'd stripped off her sweater, hating the fact she agonised over a stupid wardrobe choice that had ended up causing her more bad than good.

"Hi, Beth," Carol called from the bar, a large black man at her side. "You're on in ten."

Beth turned to Daryl, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Wanna help me set up?"

_I wouldn't have it any other way. _Instead, he said, "Yeah, sure."

The younger Dixon brother breathed a sigh of relief at the absence of the bearded man—Rick. His unexpected presence would cause Daryl's half-baked plan to promptly circle the drain, losing Beth along with it. Beth walked two strides ahead of him, to the stage and up the stairs. But she wavered at the second step, her delicate foot slipping on the worn wooden structure, and Daryl's hunter-honed reflexes spur him into action. He caught her falling backwards, one hand gripping hers in a tight grip as he readied his body to cradle the impact of hers. She collapsed against him, surprised to meet toned flesh in lieu of a cold, hard ground. Daryl's free arm shoots around her waist and he has to ignore where his hand lands, the thin singlet separating skin from bare skin.

"Daryl?" Beth said against his chest, grasping a fistful of his shirt.

"Hmm?" Whatever he thought his name would sound like on her tongue he was proved wrong of—it was so much better than he ever could've imagined.

"You can put me down now."

He acquiesced, dropping her feet onto stable ground, hating that her warmth and softness would disappear from under her hands in three—two—one. Daryl couldn't help but prolong the amount of time it took to let her go, finding an excuse to keep close to her. His heart was beating in his throat and he's zoned in on to the feel of Beth—clothes, hair, skin.

Beth had revelled in the short seconds she'd spent in Daryl Dixon's arms, but knowing she had to keep their relationship strict and professional, she was quick to leave his embrace. Although, she did pretend to waver on the first steps, just to keep his hand hovering at her elbow.

On the stage Beth keeps her back turned to Daryl. She busied herself with opening her guitar case and fiddling with the instrument, waiting until the blush of heat left her cheeks and she could keep a firm rein on her emotions.

Daryl hated being on stage, hated every second of it. He hated the obtrusive spotlight blaring down at him. He hated how it made him feel like he was on display, like all his flaws and scars and imperfections were under scrutiny. His neck burnt and his fingers were trembling and the walls were closing in on him, but he endured it all. He would bear the pain and fear and general discomfort just to be close to Beth, even for a few short seconds.

"Okay, got it," Beth said, perching atop the high stool like she was born to do it. Crossing her legs, she gestured at the microphone over her guitar, focused on the tone of the testing strings. "Can you check to see if the microphone works?"

Daryl felt stupid and aimless standing up there, so he gripped the microphone and flicked it with his finger. A loud boom resonated through the room, sending embarrassment coursing through his veins like liquid fire.

Beth looked up from her guitar, surprised. She smiled at the sight of Daryl—shuffling on his feet, mumbling an apology, angling his head so his fringe hung in his eyes. For a man who rode a motorbike—she had watched him drive off on it last week—and had a knife tucked into his boot—it wasn't an uncommon practise in Georgia—and wore angel wings, he could be reduced to no more than a lil' boy in about two seconds flat.

"For a music producer you're not too good with music." She commented, missing the flash of fear in his gaze as she focused her attentions back on her guitar.

"What are ya singin' tonight?" He positioned his hands on his hips to hide the tremor that passed through his fingers. His stance—feet a shoulders width apart, hands on hips, back ramrod straight—made him feel like he was patronising her, like a parent would do a child. Daryl knew Beth meant it as a joke, but it was too close to the truth for his comfort.

"I was gonna sing a lil' Elvis—"

"'Hound Dog'?" He attempted a crooked smirk that didn't quite make it, causing his cheeks to flush red, but Beth smiled at the effort.

She ducked her head so a curtain of hair shielded her face before answering. "No. I thought 'Can't Help Falling In Love With You' would be the most appropriate—" Beth balked at her own words, rushing to clarify herself. "I meant the most appropriate for my voice. Soft and stuff."

Daryl rubbed the scratch of his beard as if to quell an itch.

"I was also thinking about doing this old Scottish folk song called 'Wild Mountain Thyme' and Matt Corby's 'Brother'. The range is a lot tamer than last week, much more slow and simple in tone." She played absently with the strings of her guitar, rolling the pick between her fingers. "And I had my own song I wanted to do. . ." She said, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "It's called 'Blue Toothbrush'."

The younger Dixon brother glanced sidelong at her, a corner of his mouth curling. "Then do it."

Beth looked up at him, surprised at the reassuring tone of Daryl's voice—like he was encouraging to sing—and the soft way he said it, the gentle caress of words. She tried to fake interest in the pendant hanging off her necklace, running the pad of her thumb over the small ornament. Daryl grunted, loitering at the mic stand—and Beth—before thinking the better of it and climbing down the stairs.

"Beth?" he said on the ground floor, permitting himself to turn back to her.

"Yeah?"

"Sing 'Blue Toothbrush'."

Daryl took up residence in the nearest booth, the one he and Beth had been sitting in last week. He didn't want to squint at her from the bar along with the grey-haired woman. And the newfound presence of the hulking black man set him on edge. He wasn't like Merle, cussing and mocking and calling them folk _niggers_ in a derisive tone whenever it pleased him, but he felt a trickle of unease whenever he was near that man. Although, in the few seconds he was waiting for Beth at the bar the black man's gentle voice didn't escape him, nor his affectionate talk of his two little girls—Lizzie and Mika.

He redirected his attention the angel onstage; she was making last-minute preparations. Lord, he had never felt like people belonged on stage, in the spotlight—he certainly didn't—but the sight of Beth demanded to be look at, to be admired. She seemed more at home with a guitar in her lap and a smile on her face then she did anywhere else.

Beth opted for a casual, conservational tone that she had been devoid of last week, easing into the shoes of a professional performer. "Okay," she said into the microphone, leaning back when her voice came through too loud, "I'm gonna start things off with a little blast from the past tonight."

Three songs, all ranging in spirit and length and tempo, both filled the Cherokee Rose Bar with a sound that was unparalleled to anything Daryl had heard before. From background radio to garishly bright jukeboxes glinting in the dark of dive bars to Merle singing karaoke in his drunken molasses-thick drawl, nothing had ever resonated with Daryl as much as Beth's voice. High and clear and strong, belonging in a pretend place where bluebirds sing and there's a whiskey spring.

The song had reached its end, one which was deeply rooted in folk influences, envisioning fresh, moist air rolling through green Scottish moors blooming with heather. It needed no more than a voice and a microphone for it to be heard, but now Beth was adjusting her guitar in her lap, fiddling with strap and stings and her pick. She was wasting time, he realized. She didn't want to sing, didn't feel comfortable or confident enough to expose the world to her music.

"Beth," he whispered, even though the barkeep weren't in range of hearing him.

She looked at Daryl, somehow managing to find his squinted gaze in the dim light of the room, establishing a private, intimate bond that was exclusive to them alone. She mouthed _what _at him, the relief at having a distraction from her current dilemma plain on her face.

And he said: "_Sing_."

That one word, uttered loud and close in the bowels of the Cherokee Rose Bar, made Beth think she could do this. That someone out there would hear her music on the radio, travelling down a strip of road that never seemed to end in the dark of night, and feel as if this song was wrote for them. That it was worthwhile, that her songs were worthwhile, that she was worthwhile

And so she sung:

_Do you have my blue toothbrush?_

_I left it near the bathroom sink_

_It's been a couple months, I think_

Beth's voice wavered, faltering for a moment, but a quick glance at Daryl spurred her on. She would not fail in front of a professional, of the one man who could make all her dreams come true.

_You tossed it, if I had to guess_

_I hope it never caused you stress_

_I know how you don't like a mess_

Daryl wondered if someone—a boy probably, too young and stupid to see a good thing in front of him—had treated her like this. Like Beth was a complication in their oh-so perfect life, like she didn't deserve love and care and affection. Like she wasn't worth it.

_You rarely have the time each day_

_To deal with tooth or heart decay_

_Of someone who's a million miles away_

His thoughts drifted to his kin, who were too busy piss-drunk or angry or high to deal with him.

_But still I thought that I could stay_

Beth's gaze flickered to Daryl. Noting his absent expression she dug deep into her chest, looking for the power she had seen Maggie and Hershel wield without fault—that unwavering Greene authority. Her fingers worked the guitar string with an expert ease, her voice increasing in volume and strength until it bounced off the walls and commanded attention to it, and she _sung_.

_I've been thinking about_

_Winter mornings, talking in your bed_

_Sleepy eyes, head rise_

_Blue head dreams swirling in my head_

_I take a shower and brush my teeth_

_Put my toothbrush down, where is easy to reach_

Daryl's thoughts were no longer preoccupied with the ghosts of his past.

_I've been thinking about_

_Harlem sidewalks, New York morning winds_

_Careful talk, lips locked_

_Though I'm sure, wasn't sure what I had to lose_

_Coffee, a kiss, and raisin bran_

_You're a half hour and the show began_

He didn't believe he was able to think when a few feet of empty space separated him from most awe-inspiring person in existence?

_Have you seen my blue toothbrush?_

_I left it near the bathroom sink_

_It's been a couple months, I think_

Beth dared to look at Daryl—staring at her, mouth agape, transfixed—and smiled.

_Yeah, if you kept my blue toothbrush_

_I don't mean to push or rush_

_But you sure do have a real nice place_

_A toothbrush doesn't take much space_

Time and space and coherent thought lost all meaning to Daryl. His world was stripped back to the sight of Beth up onstage, unable to comprehend a beautiful and modest and sweet song had ever come from her, birthed after leaving perfect, pink lips.

_Maybe you could keep it there_

_I should be back in May of next year_

_Can't tell if it's wrong or right_

_But you should know that toothbrush keeps me up at night_

Her voice had dropped in tone, but the magnetism remained.

_If you don't want my blue toothbrush_

_I'll take it back when we next meet_

_Just trying to help you keep things neat_

The song drew to a close, and Daryl was a hairs breadth from saying something he shouldn't have when the back of the room erupted into a round of hearty applause. Carol and her companion were clapping, wooing their approval of Beth's fine singing. She blushed, responding in her normal mannerism—cute, shy and unsure—as opposed to the girl who'd been on stage moments before, all fire and iron. Beth thanked Carol and the man—who'd called out his name as Tyreese—before departing the stage with a theatrical bow, cheeks flushed red and giggling.

Beth's gaze snapped up to Daryl's mid-step, happier than she's ever been before.

And it's because of him—her eternal gratitude was evident in the shine in her eyes and the smile on her face and the bounce in her step.

A golden wash of contentment spread from Daryl's chest outwards, the corners of his mouth curling up into a crooked smirk in the most natural action and, for once, it was not for his sake, but for someone else's.


	5. Scrambled Eggs And Coffee

**Sorry for the delay, guys. FORGIVE ME.**

* * *

><p>Daryl should've known there was a storm brewing on the horizon the second Beth asked him if she could show him a few of her songs. And it had to be at his house, of course, since Hershel was still in the dark on his daughter's secretive going-ons for the last three months. That would've been all fine and dandy if not for three very important things; one, the mere idea of Beth and him alone in close quarters was enough to set him on edge; two, his few meagre possessions would allude to his lying, unemployed status; and three, Daryl had no house to speak of.<p>

The cabin him and Merle had been shacked up in for the last couple months had served its purpose well. Tucked into a groove of trees on the outskirts of town, it was located deep in the surrounding woodland. It was a small structure, no more than four rooms—two bedrooms, bathroom and a kitchen that doubled as a living area—with an adjacent shack for a homemade moonshine still. He rarely crossed paths with other folk so far from civilisation, despite the odd hunter like himself, who preferred to spend their free time in the solace and quiet the wilderness offered. People had left him and Merle alone and he'd been at peace for a few weeks there—sticking close to himself, working at the auto garages, getting lit before noon. But his brother was gone now, and so was his meagre income. The measly amount of cash he gleaned from hunting game only went so far—food, gas, and habits he knew he should've quit long ago. And he was never one for participating in Merle's choice trades—dealing drugs, booze, and other speciality items—no matter what extra income it promised.

With his rent a month overdue the bank had claimed his cabin. An eviction notice was tacked up to his front door, telling Daryl he had forty-eight hours to get the hell out of dodge or the local authorities would be called into question. He couldn't afford to spend a night in lock-up, or pay bail, not with the chance of Beth finding out he wasn't all he was cracked up to be.

Homeless and broke, Daryl had spent his first night camping out in the forest, almost wishing he'd swapped in his motorbike for a pickup truck. But he'd built that bike from scratch, poured hours of blood, sweat and tears into it. He wasn't selling it, even to substitute it for a place to sleep.

Daryl hunkered down in his tent in preparation for the next day, stamping the fire out before the sky was even full and bright with stars. He'd fallen into a restless night of sleep, and for once his thoughts weren't occupied by a certain blonde. He needed a job, a real place to sleep and running water if he ever wanted to keep the music producer gist up—and Lord in heaven he wanted that.

He was awake before the sun had even crested the horizon, packing his tent up and deserting his makeshift camp in search for breakfast. Daryl called into a greasy spoon diner, knowing the clientele there was limited to truckers, rednecks and folks with nowhere else to be. He ordered a cup of black coffee and scrambled eggs before using the customer bathroom to clean himself up.

Daryl felt claustrophobic squeezed into such an enclosed space, with the walls closing in on him and the edges of the single, square mirror blurred with grime. Urine and cigarette smoke burned his nostrils—the smell evoking memories of a childhood spent in places like this. Ugly, dark places.

He rubbed the heel of his palm against his face in an attempt to assuage the sting of exhaustion behind his eyes. Again, in a reminiscent echo of his time spent in the bathroom of the Cherokee Rose Bar, he ran a stream of cold water over his hands and face. Although he worked the water over his hair, neck, collarbone and armpits, it didn't have much of an effect on how he reeked of sweat and wood smoke, or the dirt and oil lining his fingernails. Daryl reframed from looking at his wretched reflection, instead choosing to take a piss and depart the room without a second glance.

He slid heavily into his seat, pulling a newspaper—the one he'd swiped from the counter when the waitress was preoccupied—from his jacket. He opened it to the job guide, flattening the pages across the table with his forearm. Either underqualified or disinterested in the positions available, it was mighty slim pickings in Daryl's opinion. The younger Dixon brother sighed wearily, a deep ache taking root in his bones, and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

In his peripheral vision, a waitress appeared at his elbow. "Here you are, sir," she said, "a plate of scrambled eggs—"

Once the sweet, feminine voice had registered in the back of his mind, connecting it to a person, he snapped to attention. He folded the pages of the newspapers over as to hide his intentions, and only then did he dare to turn his head to the side, confirming his worst fears.

"—Daryl?" It was Beth, with her hair pulled into its usual ponytail and her blue eyes wide. Daryl's gaze roamed over Beth in waitress's uniform, lingering on the slight accentuation of her curves in that slim-fit dress.

"You finally decided to come visit me at work. Well, who would've guessed?" She remarked, grinning. "What do you think of the place?"

He made the effort to scrutinise the diner's interior, taking fleeting notice of the retro 1950s jukebox, the black and white linoleum floor and low-slung ceiling. "Yeah, it seems nice," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. His heart hammered in his chest, beating at his ribs.

Beth smiled at his answer, reciting his order aloud as she set the plate down in front of him. "You wanted a cup of coffee too, right?" she asked.

"Yeah." He had never felt so self-conscious than in this moment. His clothes were stiff with dirt, his unwashed stench foul enough to curdle milk, and his skin was tinged red in sunburn. He moved to scratch his head, the action belying how he finger-combed his greasy hair in brief, secret strokes. Daryl was able to breathe as Beth left to fetch a pot of black coffee, the air finally dispersing from his full lungs.

"Black? Industrial strength?" she prompted from behind the counter.

"Yeah."

When she returned he had a better grasp of his emotions, his mind already working to come up with plausible excuses to why he was in such a pitiful state. Daryl couldn't believe he'd ever been so stupid. That he'd strolled into the same diner Beth worked in, that someone he knew might see him and her together, that a dangerous rumour might be set in motion and destroy them both.

The younger Greene sister sat opposite Daryl, setting a cup of Joe down in front of him and crossing her legs daintily. Beth's dress rode high—much too fuckin' high—on her thighs, exposing an uninterrupted flash of smooth, pale skin. His mouth ran dry, his Adams apple bobbing in his throat. "So," she propped her chin in her palms, "what brings you round these parts?"

"Don't you have a job to do?" Daryl couldn't seem to formulate a response, but he also couldn't seem to just get up and leave Beth. No matter how much it scared him sometimes, with fear niggling in the back of his head and his stomach a' flutter, Daryl couldn't deny himself the simple pleasures of Beth's company. He liked to be around her, fuck the danger of it.

"Don't you?" she teased, a delicate eyebrow arched.

He took a sip of his coffee to distract himself, coughing as the hot, bitter taste flooded his mouth. "Yeah," he surmised.

"Is that all you can say? 'Yeah?'" She cocked her head to the side, causing strands of blonde hair to brush her cheek.

"Yeah."

At Beth's expression of mock outrage, a corner of his mouth quirked.

Her giggle echoed through the still diner; alone save for the two of them and a man in a camo vest and a faded baseball cap sitting at the counter. Beth dropped her head to examine her nails, picking at the light blue polish with a sudden interest. "You coming down to the Cherokee Rose Bar this Friday?" It wasn't a real question—Daryl never had a reason not to be there—but Beth was still nervous asking.

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Greene." He'd made a habit of saying that lately.

"I never . . ." Beth's speech stuttered to a halt, which forced Daryl to look up at her from his plate of scrambled eggs. "I never got to thank you for the other night, Daryl."

His brow furrowed. "For what?"

"For making me sing."

"But you always sing," he said, huffing in what Beth almost thought was amusement.

"No, not that." A blush crept up the side of her neck, causing Daryl's gaze to travel the line of red to her collar and below—

He took another intermittent sip of his coffee between forkfuls, grunting as the hot liquid burned down his throat, anything to erase the mental image of what laid beneath Beth's shirt.

"I meant for making me sing 'Blue Toothbrush'." She said. "I couldn't have done it without you."

"Bullshit."

She stared at him, her smile faint and open as she waited for further elaboration.

"You can sing whatever you want, Beth. It's your music. It's your choice." He said, looking hard at Beth—ensuring she knew he meant what he said, that she could do anything she damn well wanted in this world. "You don't need anyone else, and certainly not me, telling you what you can and can't do." Daryl was too late to catch the slip of the tongue, but Beth didn't seem to notice.

She didn't seem to notice much at all, looking at him from across the small table without showing the intention of ever stopping. Daryl's neck burned under her intense gaze, and he tried to focus on each separate forkful of scrambled eggs as he scooped it into his mouth. The urge to squirm in his seat was near impossible to deny, but he held strong.

"What's so interesting?" he asked, equal parts snide and teasing.

"You."

The tips of his ears burned red and hot, a blush creeping up under the tan and dirt of his skin. He had never been told he mattered, that he was nice or smart or strong, or that he was interesting. He didn't believe what she said, not for a second, but Beth's kind words filled with that something new and content and _good_. That feeling he'd first encountered upon hearing her sing, standing in the dim red light of the Cherokee Rose Bar, seeing an angel illuminated onstage.

"You know, I wouldn't have been able to do this without you," she said, tilting her head to the side.

"What? Eating breakfast?" Daryl feigned ignorance. He knew exactly what Beth meant, about her music and singing, but that selfish, twisted part of him wanted to hear her say it aloud. Wanted to hear that she needed him as much as he needed her—that light in the dark, a whisper of hope.

"I mean at the Cherokee Rose Bar," she said, leaning back in her chair. "I used to think nobody wanted to hear me sing—"

"Trust me, that's the last thing people think."

Daryl could hardly believe how fast he was to admit weakness in front of another person—even if it was Beth—these days. Merle would've mocked him relentlessly for doing that, jabbing at his sides and calling him a pussy in his slow self-amused drawl. But his brother was gone now, and it was Beth in his place. She glanced at his hand after his last comment, like she was debating whether or not to reach out and touch him. Instead, Daryl made the decision for her, moving his unoccupied hand from the tabletop to his knee underneath.

"I mean I wouldn't be singing every week at a bar. I wouldn't be doing my own songs. I wouldn't even be writing my own songs." Beth shook her head at that, smiling at the thought of not writing—the need to do so was innate now. "I wouldn't have been able to do this without you," she said again, softer.

"Stop," he mumbled. The remaining scrambled eggs slid cold and wet down his throat, bearing a likeness to sucking on an oyster—Daryl had tried it once on a dare.

"Daryl?" she prompted.

"Hmm?"

She leaned across the table, her touch ghosting over his idle hand. "Can you at least look at me?"

The skin of his hand tingled, right where had Beth touched him—where she was still touching him. Daryl's fingers itched to reciprocate the action, to stroke the underside of Beth's thumb and kiss her fingertips and press her palm to the side of his face, just to be close to her. But his old fears told him that he didn't deserve to be touched like that. Caught in limbo—his head wanting to pull away, his heart wanting to do the opposite—Daryl stayed like that, unable to move, allowing Beth's hand to rest over his. Slowly, with doubt coursing through his mind and his foot tapping in a nervous tic, he raised his head. Their gazes collided, holding.

The light was shining in her eyes, a healthy flush to her cheeks. Beth was strong and youthful and perfect, brimming with hope and beauty and all the wonder of the universe. And she was directing that—love, goodness—onto him, like he was worthy of it. Daryl swallowed, the taste of bitter coffee still simmering in his mouth. His fingers dug into his knee, sharp enough to feel pain.

Beth dipped her head, encouraging him to look up from the table and at her. He registered a slight pressure on his hand—a squeeze. "I would not have been able to do this without you, okay?"

He nodded, hair shielding his eyes.

"Daryl," she warned good-naturedly. "I wouldn't have, okay?"

"Hmm."

At least he was acknowledging her now.

"Do you always work this early?" he asked, eager to change the subject. He pulled from her grasp to grab a hold of the coffee cup and put it to his lips, the curve of the porcelain handle pressing into his palm. The drink had long gone cold, but he had preferred coffee for the caffeine rather than the taste.

She didn't seem too fazed by his rejection, instead accepting these little bumps in the road as being inevitable when she was with Daryl. He was a man of few words, and even fewer feelings—at least ones he wasn't able to convey properly.

"I work early most weekdays, save for Monday and Friday. I do Saturday mornings and about nine hours every Sunday but . . ." Beth's speech condensed into a string of nonsensical words, the sweet lull of her voice running through Daryl's mind in a honey-thick trickle. He'd be happy just listening to Beth talk. She had that effect on him, like whenever she was around him Daryl felt like a completely different person—content to escape his pitiful life just to spend a few hours in her presence.

Later, when the orange-bright sky had faded into a pale blue and the morning quietness had been replaced with the sounds of diesel-chugging engines and technology awaking from its slumber, Beth left Daryl to serve another customer. She floated past him, her hand grazing his shoulder in an innocent, secret action that went unnoticed to most. It was warm and fleeting at the point of shared contact, something that was massive in magnitude however small. Daryl gripped his knee in a white-knuckled hold to centre himself, his gut a roiling mass of emotion and nerves.

He spread his stolen newspaper out on the table in front of him, trying to occupy his mind with something other than Beth for once. His gaze flitted across the job section, desperate to find something, however menial, that he was good at—mechanics, hunting, tracking. Daryl's brow furrowed and he held the paper up for a closer look and there, it read, was a room included in the available position of a superintendent. It was a simple janitorial job at an apartment building in town, a real place where he could pretend to live in, like a music producer would.

Daryl shot to his feet, his legs hitting the table in a painful thump as his attention was still fixated on the paper. He swore under his breath, tucking the newspaper under his arm as he swallowed the remnants of his coffee. Beth glanced at him in concern from the counter.

"Daryl," she called out, oblivious to those staring at her, "you okay?"

He nodded, grinding his teeth together to dull the sharp, insistent sting of pain in his thighs. "Yep, fine." He cast a contemplative look at her, for once ignoring the other folk in the room with them, and said, "I'm going now, Beth." The presence of others crushed down on him, so much he was eager to leave.

He was out of the door, the bell ringing loud in his ears to drown out her exclamation of surprise, telling him to wait a second as Beth rushed to catch him. He hated goodbyes—always had. The weight of unseen eyes followed him outside and to his bike the parking lot, causing the skin of his neck to prickle with unease.

His hand curled around the rubber of the handlebars, his legs on either side of the machine. The feel of metal and rubber and leather comforted him, it was something he was familiar with. Oil filled his nostrils, the dirt and musk of the surrounding forest a scent that was imprinted on his skin. He rested his weight on one side to kick-start the bike, a jolt of electricity running though him as a hand caught the elbow of his jacket. He turned—

"—Beth?" he asked, confused.

Her eyes were wide, her expression alight with a cheekiness Daryl had yet to witness.

"What—?"

She surged forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her lithe body to him. There was a second of brief physical contact, breaths close and hot on each other's skin, one mind aimless in conviction and the others strong, and then it was over. Beth pulled back, maintaining a short—much too short in social circumstances—distance and she smiled, playful and coy, as if she liked touching him. The sight of her, both sweet and impish, ignited a spark of feral desire that Daryl was quick to put down, blinking to keep from running his tongue slow over his lip.

"You can't leave without saying goodbye," Beth said. There was another moment where she was close and tangible under Daryl's fingers—he vaguely recalls cupping her elbow—and then he was grasping at a vacuum of air, vacant of a soft, warm body.

He watched Beth return to the diner, reaching up to touch the scruff on the side of his cheek. His skin burned where she had kissed him, her lips damn near searing him.


	6. Bruce Springsteen

Beth's choice songs were something a lil' sadder next week. Melancholic and mournful, almost like the first of her songs that had ever graced his ears. Daryl couldn't put a finger on who sung what, if it was gospel or country or the blues, even if the songs were composed in this decade, but he didn't care.

Music had never appealed to him, on an emotional level or not. It usually only sufficed as faded background noise during long road trips that had no set destination, his brother snoring loudly beside him as a strip of asphalt disappeared underneath the body of Merle's truck. Daryl's eyes would burn with fatigue as he blinked, the sound of some forgotten old man filtering throughout the darkened cab, keeping him tethered to this world. He did not miss the days he drifted from town to town, spending nights in dive bars and days on the floors of cheap hotel rooms, suffering from a poor diet of liquor, cigarettes and women whose faces he could never remember. He was just an asshole with a bigger asshole for a brother.

But now he had Beth—now he had a reason to live, so to speak.

After he'd spent breakfast with Beth in that diner, and her lips had brushed his cheek, Daryl had found a payphone. Using the assortment of spare change he still had left, Daryl had called the number listed in the paper in quick succession, damn near punching the buttons in. The man who picked up sounded more tired than he did, although his words remained somewhat kind throughout the interview—or whatever else you wanted to call it. The man—Dale Horvath, he said his name was; blunt but considerate—barely feigned interest as Daryl rattled off his measly history of job employment.

"You ever been a janitor before, son? Done building maintenance or worked electrical systems? Had to unclog a toilet stinking of a week's worth of Chinese takeout?" the voice on the other end asked after a moment's pause.

Daryl chewed on the pad of his thumb out of nervous habit. He couldn't lie, he knew that. "Nah," he said finally, "I haven't done anything like that before."

"Oh," his tone was surprised, pleased.

"But I can promise you one thing: I'll work hard," Daryl said. He was desperate, grasping at straws he didn't usually pay much heed to. "I don't make much noise, I don't complain, and I'll do whatever the hell you say."

Dale made a noise of acknowledgment in the back of his throat.

Daryl's pulse thudded in a steady rhythm, pumping blood loud and fast through his veins. He knew he couldn't turn up to the Cherokee Rose Bar without first taking a proper shower or looking half-decent, but then Beth would start asking questions. Maybe even look for him around town, or let slip to the wrong person she spent her Friday nights with Daryl Dixon and eventually discover he was actually a dirty old redneck living off the money he earned from tracking squirrels. That he had lied straight to her face and dared to act like she meant something more to him.

"Please," he gritted out, never having used that word before in his life. "I need this."

Dale chuckled, and Daryl was almost compelled to kick his teeth in at the noise. But his anger—which was always a problem in need of fixing—was dispelled and deemed irrelevant as the old man said, "You already have the job, son." He chuckled again, his good humour never more evident. "No need to beg."

"No shit?" he blurted out.

"No shit."

In that moment, Daryl decided he liked Dale.

So here, sitting in a bar and watching Beth sing onstage, Daryl had a job, a place to sleep, and a boss who was glad to share a rooftop beer with him at the end of the day. For once, he had some sort of grasp of control on his life. A source of income, access to hot water, and an apartment he couldn't even afford after selling Merle's finest stash. He had a home, a girl, a future—he just had to keep it that way.

After hearing a soft, familiar "_goodnight and joy be with you all_" filtered through the slurred noise of the darkened room, Daryl's gaze snapped to Beth. Storing her guitar in its case and hooking it over her shoulder, she departed the stage with an effervescent smile, her cool, calm and collected veneer wavering thin. Beth slid into the seat opposite him with a heavy thump, cradling her head in her hands as she uttered a weary sigh that was much more suited to him.

"That was horrible," she said. "I was horrible. The worst I've ever sung in my life."

A muscle pulled in his chest, aching much too close to his heart. "No, it wasn't. You could never be horrible—"

"I was off-key throughout the entire performance, I sung in a pitch only dogs can hear in the last chorus and I missed three notes during my guitar solo." Her gaze was bold and unwavering, pinning Daryl to his seat—stupid and embarrassed. He was a music producer; the least he could do was act like one.

"I was just—" Beth cut him off before Daryl could even pretend to offer constructive criticism.

"Just forget it, Daryl." Her fingers ran over the worn edge of the wooden table, feeling for chips and indentations and imperfections. "It doesn't matter. It never does."

He glanced at her sharply, registering her bitter tone. "You alright?" Daryl asked, trying and failing to mask his concern.

Her spirits had been dampened long before she walked through that door. Small changes in character—dimmed smiles and the absence of a usual sparkle from her eye—didn't escape him, not when he was aware of most things about her—right-handed, preferred to wear her hair in ponytails, able to shoulder the weight of her guitar with ease.

"Yeah, just . . ." she trailed off, brushing a stray hair behind her ear, "family stuff."

Daryl's hands needed to move, to be occupied with anything other than reaching out to offer Beth some sort of comfort. He wanted to do all those things—to be the man worthy of Beth—but he would always have his reservations. There were doctrines he had to strive to as a child when he was trapped in a home with his abusive father, and then he had to adapt to a different set of rules when he ended up with Merle. Not once were feelings or caring for someone other than himself included in that list though.

"Wanna talk about it?" he asked, fingers drumming on the table to keep from fishing the pack of smokes from his pocket. Carol would kick his ass to the curb for smoking in here, and the way Beth looked at him when he lit one up damn near killed him, so he was attempting to quit—or something close to it.

Beth raised her head, her gaze vacant of life. She folded her arms across the table, staring at him—straight through him—like he wasn't even there. A few lines of one of Beth's songs had been circulating in his head—_And I find it kinda funny/I find it kinda sad/The dreams in which I'm dying/Are the best I've ever had—_for a while now, and the lyrics had become unsettling in nature.

Daryl realised this wasn't his Beth. She wasn't like the rest of the world. She wasn't meant to feel pain or endure hardship; she wasn't supposed to experience such horrible things, not ever.

"Do you wanna hear me talk about it?" she asked in a hollow voice.

His reply was instant: "Yes."

She sucked in her bottom lip, contemplating.

"Beth?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm here." His fingers burned with a need to touch her_,_ the empty air between his and Beth's hands short in distance but still so far apart—too far. "I'm not goin' anywhere, Beth. I'm stayin' right here with you, even if it takes all night. I'm not leaving you."

She reached across the table—for a brief moment in time Daryl thought she was reaching for him, causing his heart to subsequently beat at his ribs—and took hold of his beer. He watched, his jaw clenched shut and straining to ignore the gnawing pit in his stomach, as Beth took a long swig of the drink. She didn't balk once at the heady, bitter taste of it—a feat that both impressed and worried Daryl. Slamming the bottle back down, she stood and swung her guitar over her shoulder. Daryl expected her expression to be indifferent—devoid of all emotion—but instead he noticed a nuance in Beth's face, a glimmer of weakness that had not been there before. A vulnerability.

She marched towards the door in long, quick strides, disappearing outside without so much as a second glance. The true meaning behind her look was ambiguous, indistinct, but it was clear she had tried to tell him something without words. Dumbfounded, and as much as he didn't want to admit it to himself he was a touch scared. Daryl was on his feet and trailing after Beth in a second. Carol threw him a concerned look when he passed the bar, asking a silent question. In response he lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug, quickening his pace as the distance between him and Beth seemed to do nothing but grow and grow.

The night was alight with a smattering of a million stars outside, a soft breeze of balmy, pasture-sweet air filling Daryl's nostrils, wrapping around him in a lukewarm blanket. Again, he frantically searched the empty street for Beth—a flash of blonde hair, the bulking shape of a guitar case, milk-pale skin. Nearby, he heard gravel crunch underfoot and fragments of a soft, distant song, and promptly followed the origin of noise. He was good at this—tracking, searching the environment for signs of disturbance. He would find Beth, even if she didn't want to be found.

It turned out she wasn't trying to run away, not in the slightest. Perched on the leather seat of his motorbike, guitar resting between her knees and long hair cascading over a shoulder, Beth waited for him. Her voice floated across the parking lot loud and clear, calling out to Daryl—resonating with him—like a sirens song in an ocean of dark quietness.

_I ain't lookin' for prayers or pity_

_I ain't comin' 'round searchin' for a crutch_

_I just want someone to talk to_

_And a little of that human touch_

_Just a little of that human touch_

He meandered closer, hands hooked casually on the loops of his jeans to bely just how relieved he was to see her, how much he just wanted to run to her. The song travelled through the still night air, filling it with life and noise, no matter how broken it sounded.

_Ain't no mercy on the streets of this town_

_Ain't no bread from heavenly skies_

_Ain't nobody drawin' wine from this blood_

_It's just you and me tonight_

Slow and cautious, he settled down beside Beth so as not to startle her, surprised they could both fit on his bike with room to spare. Pointedly ignoring all the ideas that gave him, Daryl threaded his fingers in his lap, listening to Beth sing. She didn't seem to notice he was there.

_Tell me in a world without pity_

_Do you think what I'm askin's too much?_

_I just want something to hold on to_

_And a little of that human touch_

_Just a little of that human touch_

He knew this song, he knew those lyrics—it was Bruce Springsteen, the man who'd wrote the soundtrack to the life of the middle-class working man. The Boss had served as his only companion many times over, whether it was sitting in the back of his truck, beer in hand, as the sun slipped below the horizon or driving aimlessly down the dirt roads of a backwater town with no real destination.

_Oh girl that feeling of safety you prize_

_Well it comes with a hard, hard price_

_You can't shut off the risk and pain_

_Without losin' the love that remains_

_We're all riders on this train_

Daryl had never analyzed the lyrics of the song in lieu of listening to them, but he could glean the gist of it. It was about the most basic, human want: to touch. That life may as well be another trip through the fiery pits of hell to some, but that visceral craving for skin contact—no matter how small, how fleeting, how hollow—could be enough to ease the pain and hardship for a brief, blissful moment in time. He had never thought of "Human Touch" as more than a rock song, rough and simple to a tee, but hearing it coming from Beth's lips altered his perception of the tune altogether—it was sad and lonely, a cry out for help.

_So you been broken and you been hurt_

_Show me somebody who ain't_

_Yeah I know I ain't nobody's bargain_

_But hell a little touchup_

_And a little paint_

He and Beth don't remember who reached forward first, just which one of them grasped for the others hand and intertwined their fingers in a tight hold. The touch—insignificant in all matters that counted—caused Daryl's heart to race, and a fond warmth to return to Beth's. She needed this, to know that someone was out there and that they cared, so Daryl acquiesced. In his head he made it seem like this a one-time thing, that he didn't want now or ever again—but the lie rung hollow.

_Baby in a world without pity_

_Do you think what I'm askin's too much?_

_I just want to feel you in my arms_

_And share a little of that human touch . . ._

The words trickled to a halt, the echo of a song fading into the night. "My daddy found out Maggie had enrolled into college," Beth started, their hands still connected, "and that she had been planning to move to Atlanta with Glenn for a while now. That it was her idea. That she had it all set up from the start, jobs and where they would live and what courses they were gonna do. She told my daddy she wanted to be a cop. Go into the sex crimes division. Help people who were hurt and abused."

"Sex crimes?' Daryl breathed softly. "That's some heavy shit."

At the question Beth scrunched her eyes shut, hanging her head as a curtain of wheat-coloured hair came to shield her face from his. Moving without thought to the repercussions of such an action, he shifted closer to her, offering a source of comfort. Beth—seeking that human touch, a deep, base need to know someone else was there—leaned into him. Her forehead pressed to the coarse, blue fabric of his clothed shoulder, the touch generating more than heat between the two souls in a desolate parking lot.

Beth tightened her fingers in their hold, anchoring herself to the feel of Daryl. She expelled the air from her lungs before continuing. "When I was seventeen Maggie came home late one night. Me and Daddy were sitting up in the front living room, sitting by the fire and reading by lamplight. And she—" she stopped herself, repositioning her head on the point of Daryl's shoulder, "she came bursting into the house, crying—" again, Beth faltered. Ignorant of all reason, he began to rub her hand gently in-between his, returning warmth and feeling to her absent fingers. "Glenn followed Maggie inside. He was trying to console her, telling her she was okay and that it was alright. She was screaming, her face purple."

Daryl tensed on instinct, no stranger to the abuse of women. The idea of the weak suffering and innocence lost made his blood boil and rage, although such a thing was still considered the norm to his folk. His stomach clenched at the thought of someone so close to Beth having to endure such a thing, that the dark, poisonous tendrils of abuse could find her.

"At first Daddy thought it was Glenn. He almost put his head through the window." She huffed at that, the first sign of her inner light shining through. "But then we noticed he'd fared worse than her. Glenn's eye was swollen shut, walking with a limp, a stream of blood running down the side of his face. Maggie was wearing Glenn's shirt and it was all ripped up . . ." Her voice lowered, almost a whisper. "She was wearing just a shirt." Beth raised his head to look at him, to ensure he heard her. Her expression was sad. Serious. "She never talked about it, but we all knew."

Daryl was silent for a second, unable to articulate an appropriate response. Unconscious to all logical thought, he alternated her hand to curl his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him. She complied, grateful for the shared contact, falling into Daryl's embrace much too easily. "Does your daddy not want your sister goin' into the force?" he asked, helpless.

"No," she said, "he doesn't want her to ever leave."

"He wants to protect her, don't he?"

"In his own way." Beth nuzzled close to his chest, grasping at the folds of his vest for purchase. Her legs grazed his, the action sending shockwaves through Daryl as his arms closed around her. The smell of Beth—shampoo, coffee and springtime air—and Daryl—grease, oil, leather—melded, blending together. She was small and smooth under his fingers, a fragile and precious thing. And he was a solid wall of determination and strength to Beth, something she could rely on. He knew this was wrong, and she did too, but for once the two were able to succumb to the magnetic pull that had drawn them together.

"Maggie's still leaving," she said, "nothing will stop her. Not even Daddy."

"Then why are you so upset?" Daryl asked, cringing at his brazenness.

"Because if she leaves on bad terms what will happen when I do?"

His mouth curved into a wry smile, a touch humoured. "So you are gonna leave now?"

Beth roused from his chest to meet his eyes once again, the space between them much too short, alive with tension and unsaid words. "I was gonna leave one day, Daryl. You were just the first one to point out that I was avoiding it." She smiled then, full and bright. "You know the moment I met you my whole life changed. It's all because of you I have a chance, a future at doing something I love."

Lead-heavy guilt coursed through Daryl's veins—a feeling that customary around Beth—and he forced himself to look anywhere but her wide, open gaze—to avoid falling head-first into those blue depths. To lose himself.

"You'll have a future, Beth," he said, awash with shame. "Trust me on that."

Her heart swelled at his words, thinking that just maybe, that future included Daryl.

And he couldn't pull away, not just yet, not when he was still able to hold her.


	7. Salt Of The Earth

"Daddy?" Beth asked, blowing over the rim of coffee and raising it to her lips. The liquid—hot and rich—simmered in her mouth, washing the taste of grits from her tongue before travelling down her throat. She had her diary spread out in front of her, working diligently on her songs, her head bent so low her nose nearly touched the paper. She had her laptop open nearby to play a few songs softly through the built-in speakers.

Hershel sat opposite Beth at the kitchen table, glasses propped high on his nose and gaze trained on a neat line of writing in the local newspaper. He cast a cursory look at his daughter from over the top of his paper, quickly retuning his attentions to the price of beef and the yield of crops.

As he had long stared at the bottom of the bottle—numbing the tips of his finger with alcohol, again blurring the lines between right and wrong—Hershel had preoccupied himself with the most menial tasks when his thoughts were elsewhere. He would read every line of the paper, from the comics to horoscopes to community-minded articles. He would work to ensure there was a mug of coffee in his hand throughout the day to stave off from tasting an altogether different type of liquid. He would test the fencelike for weak spots, dissemble and clean his hunting rifles with a meticulous care, and sand and smooth and paint the walls of his large ole barn. Really make an effort to lick his farm up into shape—just so Hershel could feel like he had control of one thing in his life, like he still wielded the power to keep his daughters safe.

"Hmm?" Hershel made a noise of acknowledgment in the back of his throat, taking a slow sip of his drink. His sinus filled with the smell of burnt coffee grinds, his tongue swirling with the rich taste.

"Daddy," Beth blinked, striving to maintain a steady voice, "Daddy, I lied to you." Hershel glanced at her, his wrinkled brow furrowed in confusion. "Every Friday night I would tell you I was meeting up with friends in town, but I'd actually spend them at the Cherokee Rose Bar," she said, unashamed of what her confession entailed.

"And exactly what were you doing at the Cherokee Rose Bar, Bethy?" His voice was methodical in tone, as to maintain an unbiased opinion throughout the conservation. He was a man who would rather understand a situation than stir up trouble because of it.

"Singing."

A bushy white eyebrow arched—her daddy was curious. "Singing?"

"It was open mic night," Beth explained, "and I hadn't sung in public since . . ." she sucked in a shaky breath, steeling herself. "I hadn't sung in public since Momma and Shawn died. I needed to do it, Daddy. I needed to be able to sing without seeing their coffins being lowered into the ground." Her chin was set high in determination, calling on that Greene stubbornness. "I didn't want to spend the rest of my life working at that diner, I just wanted to be somewhere nobody knew my name. I wanted to do the thing I loved to do. I wanted to be someone other than Beth Greene for a night."

"And why are you telling me this now?"

"Because I met someone."

Hershel lowered his mug to the table, folding his newspaper in quarters, now giving Beth his full attention. Whatever—or whoever—concerned his daughter's love life concerned him.

"And?" he prompted, threading his fingers over his rotund stomach.

"His name is Daryl Dixon and he's a music producer"—a relieved stream of air escaped through Hershel's nose—"and part-owner of Rick & Co. Music. It's a big music label, like the one that sings country music stars. The headquarters are based in Atlanta but it stretches out all over the country, to places like New York and Los Angeles." In her daydreams of her future—stupid, girly little musings—Beth had dreamed of one day living in New York. Where she would walk under a canopy of autumn leaves, navigating an endless map of sidewalks, stopping at street stalls and coffee houses and secrets of the city that teemed with vibrant life. "And he said I had talent."

Her daddy inclined his head, mulling over Beth's words in his head. His soft blue eyes—her eyes—shone with kindness, understanding, but there was an underlying quality of disbelief to them.

"Daddy," she cautioned with a smile pulling at her lips, "I'm not stupid. I know how this works."

"I'm just looking out for my baby girl, as any good father should."

"I'm not sixteen anymore, Daddy." She could see a flicker of sadness pass over Hershel's face at her words. She was sixteen when half of her family died, and for a moment she'd lost her father too, instead resorting to slicing her pale wrist open as to end the void of bleak sadness gnawing at her mind. "I'm twenty-one years old now. I can make my own choices."

"And how do you know this man is legitimate? How do you know he's not _using_"—he shook his head from side-to-side as to dislodge the vicious thought—"you?"

"Because I trust him. I've known him for over three months now Daddy and not once has he tried to touch me or hurt me or pressure me into anything." It was a weird sensation, talking to her old-fashioned Christian father about the man she thought of in the dark of night, sheets twisting around her slim, bare legs. But it was good to finally get it off her chest, to alleviate that weight of lying from her shoulders. "He told me to work on a demo track, and I've been doing that for the past couple weeks. I've been singing and writing and performing every Friday night at the Cherokee Rose Bar. He comes to watch me sing, too. He's there every week, without fail, putting his busy life on hold just to watch me sing."

"Has your relationship ever progressed past the Cherokee Rose Bar?" Hershel asked calmly.

"No, I swear—" Beth had to eat her words. "Well, he did visit me at the diner once. He came early in the morning and ordered a serving of scrambled eggs, didn't even know I was there until I put the plate down in front of him." She suppressed a smile at the memory of what had happened after—her lips pressed to the skin of cheek, scraping against the rough of his beard. "But nothing else has happened, Daddy. Not a peep."

Hershel's fingers strayed to his suspenders, pulling at the taught straps. He took a sip of his coffee and rested his strong, sturdy forearms over the table, adopting a more relaxed posture. "Then why did you keep it a secret from me for so long?" There was no presence of derision or accusation in his tone, nothing that would deliberately hurt her.

"Because I didn't believe him too," she said. "It was just too good a thing to be real, like a dream come true."

"And now?"

"I have a few songs I want to show him for my demo track." She glanced down, where her hands were folded daintily in her jean-clad lap. "I have to pick the song that will be the start to my career. It has to be the perfect sound, something that will make people want to sign me. And the key to making my demo track and getting it to Rick Music & Co. is Mr. Dixon. I need him to get where I want."

"What exactly are you asking?"

"Just for your permission to be alone with this man, Daddy."

"You have my permission, Bethy. You didn't need to ask for it," he said it with all the certainty he had, because he knew his daughter—however naïve or benevolent she may be—was a fine judge of character. Doubting the truth of his daughters' words had always caused him more strife than when he placed his truth in them. "But I want to meet this man one day."

"Really?" She was shocked, well and truly rocked to her core. Hershel Greene's approval was something to be coveted, and here he was, ready to up and meet this strange man who was involved with his youngest daughter like it wasn't a big deal. But it was. It was a big deal because Beth wanted Daddy to like Daryl. She wanted him to see what she saw in Daryl.

"Mhmm." He nodded. He gathered his now-empty coffee cup and bowl to him, scraped clean of grits. Hershel pushed the sleeves of his long-sleeved cotton T-shirt up his before proceeding to run a stream of hot water over his used dishes. Such domestic duties had been limited to the womenfolk before, but Hershel's perception of gender roles had changed dramatically over the past five years.

"_Really?_" Beth repeated, dumbfounded.

"Is there something you need to tell me that would make me think otherwise?" He cast a teasing look over his shoulder at his daughter, his mouth curled into an amused smile.

She was quick to deny the claim, ignoring the three simple facts that remained; Daryl was a man sixteen years her senior; he had known more intimate secrets about Beth's family than most of her friends did; and she wanted to be alone with him for reasons that didn't concern demo tracks. Instead of telling her father these things, Beth bounced over to Hershel to deliver a quick kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you, Daddy," she said. Beth had her father's trust now, she just had to be worthy of it.

After her daddy had left, walking out the screen door with a hat angled low over his head and whistling a tune, Maggie appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. It didn't surprise her that Maggie had eavesdropped on her and Daddy's conversation—Beth had become privy to her sister knowing all her secrets. Leaning against the wooden frame, feet crossed and hand on her hip, Beth read her posture as something more serious than usual. Her short, brown hair was tucked behind her ears and a big belt buckle glinted at her waist.

Maggie was the bolder of Greene sisters, radiating with an arrogant self-confidence that made her popular among men and women alike. Beth had never been envious of her sister—of her curves, of her thriving social life, of her assurance in her abilities—because she loved her so much, but she knew she paled in comparison to Maggie.

"What's wrong?" Beth didn't look up from the lines of absent scribbles of lyrics in her diary.

"You asked Daddy for permission to be alone with a strange, older man?" Her voice was laced with bewilderment, like she couldn't quite believe what Beth had done.

"He's not old," She argued, brow furrowed—an action mirrored on Maggie's face.

"_Beth_."

"Well, he's not _that_ old."

Maggie snorted, sitting opposite her. After a few moments of stilted silence—Beth with her head in her diary and Maggie staring at her so hard holes were surely boring into her skull—the younger Greene sister raised her head to meet Maggie's gaze. The air was thick with unsaid words, weighing over them like a blanket. Beth didn't want to get into an argument right now, but such a thing was inevitable when it boiled down to Maggie and _boys_—well, men in Daryl's case.

"What now?" Beth asked.

"How do you know this man is for real? He may not have tried any funny business with you yet, but that means nothing in the long run." She was talking from past experience; Beth could see it in how her eyes flashed, cold and hard. But this was Daryl she was talking about. He would rather save her from the men Maggie spoke of than be one of them.

"The first night I met Daryl I did my own research, Maggie. Like I said before, I'm not stupid, no matter what you and Daddy think." She said, a little too snide for her own good.

Beth pulled her laptop to her from across the kitchen table, finding the website she had visited a million times before in a brief Google search and a few clicks of a button. She had read the same information over and over again to assure herself that this was real—that Daryl was real.

"Here," she pushed the laptop towards Maggie, already open at the webpage.

She leaned in close, gazing at the screen with such intensity it was almost comical. _"__The current part-owner and renowned music producer of Rick Co. & Music has taken a leave of absence to scour the darkest corners of America for the next big thing,"_ she read the article aloud, _"__and will not be available for consultation for an undisclosed period of time . . ." _After Maggie had finished reciting the information she looked to Beth, a touch less disbelieving than before.

_"_Okay," she relented, "let's just say, hypothetically, he is the real deal—"

"He is."

"This is all hypothetical, Beth. I'm not making assumptions here." Her tone was hard, but her intentions were well-meaning. Maggie had the habit of going about things in the wrong way—which got her in a bit of hot water every now and then. "I ain't saying he's the scum of the earth or somethin', but I'm also not saying this Daryl Dixon is what he says he is for the simple fact I _do not know _otherwise. I can't say he's lying, but I also can't say he's telling the truth—"

"He knows," Beth had blurted out before she could stop herself, the words spilling unbidden from her lips.

Maggie inclined her head in dangerous curiosity. "He knows what?"

"That—" After that night Maggie had stumbled home, bruised and bloody, she had looked at Beth with such a broken expression the next morning she had sworn to herself never to tell anyone. Her sister was a creature of pride and strength, and the knowledge of her ordeal would only wound that stubborn Greene spirit.

"Beth?" she prompted.

She said it in a rush, squeezing her eyes shut: "I told him about what happened to you."

Maggie shot to her feet, knocking the chair backwards violently. "What?" She seethed, speaking through gritted teeth. "You told a complete stranger about what happened to me? That I was . . ." She scoffed, hands on her hips. "What made you think you had the right to do that? To betray my trust? Your own blood."

"Because he saved me from the same fate," Beth said, finding that iron-strong will that had been buried deep within her. She could do this. "One night I ran out of the Cherokee Rose Bar—Daryl had said something that I didn't agree with." At her sister's raised eyebrow she retorted, "Don't give me that look, Maggie. He wasn't doing anything more than what you're doing to me now. So, I ran out of the bar and down the street. I wasn't thinking to where I was going or what I was doing, I just needed to get away and—"

Beth hadn't thought back to that night ever since it had happened—she hadn't wanted to relieve that terror and fear. "And," she continued, "there was a man waiting for me. I didn't see him. He grabbed me"—she looked at her sister now, registering the shock and horror on her face—"and he pulled me into an alleyway—"

"Bethy," Maggie whispered, coming to kneel beside her.

"But Daryl followed me, Maggie." She said, her vision blurred with tears. "He saw what had happened and saved me from that man." Even now she remembered how the sickly smell of sour apples had burned her nostrils, the phantom of an arm wrapping around her waist and a hot breath on her neck. Goosebumps snaked along her arms, prickling the skin. "He saved me, Maggie. He saved me and he never asked for anything more than the assurance that I was safe."

The older Greene sister enveloped her in a bear hug, unable to comprehend how Beth had gone through such a thing unnoticed to her—how this man Maggie had never met had done more than she had.

"I'm okay," Beth said, pushing against Maggie's shoulders gently, "I'm okay. Look, I'm perfectly fine. Nothing to worry about." She wiped at an errant tear, smiling—always smiling, even when she was overcome with pain and sadness—at her sister in reassurance.

"You don't have to ignore what happened, Beth," Maggie told her, the same as Glenn had done to her. "We can tell the cops. We can prosecute him for sexual assault. We can put him away."

"No," Beth shook her head. "It doesn't matter. It was a one-time thing. And I don't want Daddy knowing—he's had to deal with enough in his life—and especially not so close to you leaving."

Maggie recalled the steps she had learnt online—how to handle those who were abused. "You're not a victim, Beth. This isn't your fault, no matter what you think. You _are not_ a victim." The way Maggie was talking, voice hard but eyes soft, made Beth that she wasn't just talking about her. She was drawing from her own experience, reciting the lines of the countless articles and passages she'd memorised after that dark, horrible night. Maggie was helping her in the way she needed to be helped, and Beth loved her more for it.

"Here," the older Greene sister said, reaching for the laptop. "I'll show you."

"No." Beth stopped Maggie, her body moving on its own accord.

"I know I'm not a victim," she said, shocking her and Maggie both. "After it happened Daryl didn't treat me any differently. He didn't look at me like I was glass ready to break. He asked me once if I wanted to do anything about it and I said I didn't. He never asked again. I was never a victim to him." And it was true—never had Daryl looked down on her as something in need of fixing, instead making her think she was strong and that she could beat this.

"Well," Maggie wiped at the tears pooling in her eyes, "I'll have to meet this guy one day. I have a lot to thank him for." She sat back on her haunches, trying to rein in her emotions before attempting to do or say anything else.

"Maggie?"

"Hmm?"

"What you're gonna do . . . Working in sex crimes and all . . ." Beth grappled for the right words, a jumbled mess of feelings tightening her stomach. "I just wanted to say that I'm proud of you. I'm proud of you for going into something like that."

Maggie smiled tenuously. "Thanks," she said, standing. "Now finish that damn demo track so you can become a famous singer already."

Beth watched her go, knowing if the world ended Maggie would be one of the last standing. She was strong and smart and resilient. Someone who stared down the barrel of a gun, so to speak. But then again, Beth realized with a jolt, that she might also have what it takes to stand proud beside her sister if it ever came to the Apocalypse.


End file.
